Dear to the corn-land reaper,
And plaided mountaineer,—­
To the cottage and the castle
The piper’s song is dear;
Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch
O’er mountain, glen, and glade,
But the sweetest of all music
The pipes at Lucknow played!

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Of Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day’s renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark’s crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold determined hand,
And the prince of all the land
Led them on.—­

        Like leviathans afloat,
        Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
        While the sign of battle flew
        On the lofty British line: 
        It was ten of April morn by the chime: 
        As they drifted on their path,
        There was silence deep as death;
        And the boldest held his breath
        For a time.—­

        But the might of England flush’d
        To anticipate the scene;
        And her van the fleeter rush’d
        O’er the deadly space between. 
        “Hearts of Oak!” our captains cried; when each gun
        From its adamantine lips
        Spread a death-shade round the ships,
        Like the hurricane eclipse
        Of the sun.

        Again! again! again! 
        And the havoc did not slack,
        Till a feeble cheer the Dane
        To our cheering sent us back;—­
        Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—­
        Then ceased—­and all is wail,
        As they strike the shatter’d sail;
        Or, in conflagration pale,
        Light the gloom.—­

        Out spoke the victor then,
        As he hail’d them o’er the wave;
        “Ye are brothers! ye are men! 
        And we conquer but to save:—­
        So peace instead of death let us bring: 
        But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
        With the crews, at England’s feet,
        And make submission meet
        To our king.”—­

        Then Denmark bless’d our chief,
        That he gave her wounds repose;
        And the sounds of joy and grief
        From her people wildly rose,
        As Death withdrew his shades from the day. 
        While the sun look’d smiling bright
        O’er a wild and woeful sight,
        Where the fires of funeral light
        Died away.

        Now joy, old England, raise! 
        For the tidings of thy might,
        By the festal cities’ blaze,
        While the wine-cup shines in light;
        And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
        Let us think of them that sleep,
        Full many a fathom deep,
        By thy wild and stormy steep,
        Elsinore!