Mark the year, and mark the night, The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring, She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs That tearst the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of heaven! What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with flight combined, 'Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born? Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm: The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest, Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havock urge their destined course, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread : The bristled boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 'Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof; The thread is spun ;) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove; The work is done.) -Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn : But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 'Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line: What strings symphonious tremble in the air, Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, 'The verse adorn again Fierce war, and faithful love, And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move Pale grief, and pleasing pain, With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice as of the cherub-choir Gales from blooming Eden bear, And distant warblings lessen on my ear That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me with joy I see The different doom our fates assign: Be thine despair and sceptred care, To triumph and to die are mine.' -He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. CLX ODE WRITTEN IN 1746 How sleep the brave, who sink to rest W. Collins T. Gray CLXI LAMENT FOR CULLODEN The lovely lass o' Inverness, A waefu' day it was to me! R. Burns CLXII LAMENT FOR FLODDEN I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning--- At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching - - At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. L We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking; CLXIII THE BRAES OF YARROW J. Elliott Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, Sweet were his words when last we met; The green-wood path to meet her brother; |