(The Burial-March of Dundee.)
ON the heights of Killiecrankie
Yester-morn our army lay:
Slowly rose the mist in columns
From the river's broken way;
Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent,
And the Pass was wrapt in gloom,
When the clansmen rose together
From their lair amidst the broom.
Then we belted on our tartans,
And our bonnets down we drew, And we felt our broadsword's edges, And we proved them to be true; And we prayed the prayer of soldiers, And we cried the gathering-cry, And we clasped the hands of kinsmen, And we swore to do or die!
Then our leader rode before us
On his war-horse black as nightWell the Cameronian rebels
Knew that charger in the fight!— And a cry of exultation
From the bearded warriors rose; For we loved the house of Claver'se,
And we thought of good Montrose. But he raised his hand for silence'Soldiers! I have sworn a vow:
Ere the evening star shall glisten
On Schehallion's lofty brow,
Either we shall rest in triumph,
Or another of the Græmes
Shall have died in battle-harness
For his country and King James!
Think upon the Royal Martyr-
Think of what his race endure-
Think of him whom butchers murdered
On the field of Magus Muir :—
By his sacred blood I charge ye,
By the ruined hearth and shrine-
By the blighted hopes of Scotland,
By your injuries and mine-
Strike this day as if the anvil
Lay beneath your blows the while,
Be they covenanting traitors,
Or the brood of false Argyle!
Strike! and drive the trembling rebels
Backwards o'er the stormy Forth;
Let them tell their pale Convention
How they fared within the North.
Let them tell that Highland honour
Is not to be bought or sold,
That we scorn their prince's anger
As we loathe his foreign gold.
Strike! and when the fight is over,
If ye look in vain for me,
Where the dead are lying thickest,
Search for him that was Dundee !'
Loudly then the hills re-echoed
With our answer to his call,
But a deeper echo sounded
In the bosoms of us all.
For the lands of wide Breadelbane
Not a man who heard him speak Would that day have left the battle. Burning eye and flushing cheek Told the clansmen's fierce emotion,
And they harder drew their breath;
For their souls were strong within them,
Stronger than the grasp of death.
Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet
Sounding in the Pass below,
And the distant tramp of horses,
And the voices of the foe:
Down we crouched amid the brachen,
Till the Lowland ranks drew near,
Panting like the hounds in summer,
When they scent the stately deer.
From the dark defile emerging,
Next we saw the squadrons come, Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers Marching to the tuck of drum ; Through the scattered wood of birches, O'er the broken ground and heath, Wound the long battalion slowly,
Till they gained the plain beneath;
Then we bounded from our covert.-
Judge how looked the Saxons then,
When they saw the rugged mountain
Start to life with armèd men!
Like a tempest down the ridges
Swept the hurricane of steel,
Rose the slogan of Macdonald,-
Flashed the broadsword of Lochiell!
Vainly sped the withering volley
'Mongst the foremost of our band
On we poured until we met them,
Foot to foot, and hand to hand.
Horse and man went down like drift-wood
When the floods are black at Yule,
And their carcasses are whirling
In the Garry's deepest pool.
Horse and man went down before us-
Living foe there tarried none
On the field of Killiecrankie,
When that stubborn fight was done!
And the evening star was shining
On Schehallion's distant head,
When we wiped our bloody broadswords,
And returned to count the dead.
There we found him gashed and gory,
Stretched upon the cumbered plain,
As he told us where to seek him,
In the thickest of the slain.
And a smile was on his visage,
For within his dying ear
Pealed the joyful note of triumph,
And the clansmen's clamorous cheer:
So, amidst the battle's thunder,
Shot, and steel, and scorching flame,
In the glory of his manhood
Passed the spirit of the Græme!
HOW LORD NAIRN WAS SAVED.
As, under eddying Baltic flaws,
Which chase the soft southwest away,
Through each rash blossom, flame-like, gnaws
The icy blight of May-
So Fortune, with a bitter breath,
(Just as her beauty budded forth),
Swept, cankered into dusty death,
Our white rose of the north.
Whilst names, which seemed oak-rooted in their place,
Like homelese winds, went fleeting into space.
Caerlaverock's halls in silence stand,
And Kenmure's lads are men' in vain ;
The best blood of Northumberland
Makes rich the London rain.
In ghastly sympathy with him
Whose feet shall cross its bridge no more, Dilstone's weird moat, an omen grim,
Flows, dark with phantom gore.
Long shall each Cumbrian boor recall the sign,
Which boded ruin to that ancient line.
A prince, who speaks no English, spares
None that have loyal blood to shed;
Still, not throughout that clique of theirs,
Is English impulse dead.
When to his block the Elector vowed
Bold Nairn's unshrinking head to give, Stanhope, in generous anger loud,
Swore that his friend should live ;
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