Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,
      Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
    Dream of battle-fields no more,
      Days of danger, nights of waking. 
    In our isle’s enchanted hall,
      Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
    Fairy strains of music fall,
      Every sense in slumber dewing. 
    Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,
    Dream of fighting fields no more;
    Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
    Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

    No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
      Armour’s clang, or war-steed champing;
    Trump nor pibroch summon here,
      Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. 
    Yet the lark’s shrill fife may come
      At the daybreak from the fallow;
    And the bittern sound his drum,
      Booming from the sedgy shallow. 
    Ruder sounds shall none be near,
    Guards nor wardens challenge here;
    Here ’s no war-steed’s neigh and champing,
    Shouting clans, or squadrons’ stamping.

    Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
      While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
    Dream not, with the rising sun,
      Bugles here shall sound reveille. 
    Sleep! the deer is in his den;
    Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,
      How thy gallant steed lay dying. 
    Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
    Think not of the rising sun,
    For at dawning to assail ye,
    Here no bugles sound reveille.

[77] The song of Lady Margaret in the first canto of “The Lady of the Lake.”

HAIL TO THE CHIEF WHO IN TRIUMPH ADVANCES![78]

Hail to the chief who in triumph advances! 
Honour’d and bless’d be the ever-green pine! 
Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! 
Heaven send it happy dew,
Earth lend it sap anew,
Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,
While every Highland glen
Sends our shout back agen,
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;
When the whirlwind has stripp’d every leaf on the mountain,
The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade;
Moor’d in the rifted rock
Proof to the tempest shock,
Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;
Menteith and Breadalbane, then,
Echo his praise agen,
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

Proudly our pibroch has thrill’d in Glen Fruin,
And Bannochar’s groans to our slogan replied;
Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,
And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side. 
Widow and Saxon maid
Long shall lament our raid,
Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;
Lennox and Leven-Glen
Shake when they hear agen,
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!