SONG. 'Wheel the wild dance To sleep without a shroud. 'Our airy feet, So light and fleet, They do not bend the rye That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave, And swells again in eddying wave As each wild gust blows by; But still the corn, At dawn of morn, Our fatal steps that bore, At eve lies waste A trampled paste Of blackening mud and gore. 'Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. 'Wheel the wild dance! Brave sons of France, For you our ring makes room; Make space full wide For martial pride, For banner, spear, and plume. Room for the men of steel! Both head and heart shall feel. Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. Sons of the spear! You feel us near In many a ghastly dream; With fancy's eye Our forms you spy, And hear our fatal scream. With clearer sight Ere falls the night, Just when to weal or woe Your disembodied souls take flight On trembling wing-each startled sprite Our choir of death shall know. 'Wheel the wild dance To sleep without a shroud. 'Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers, Redder rain shall soon be ours! See! the east grows wanYield we place to sterner game, Ere deadlier bolts and direr flame Shall the welkin's thunders shame : Elemental rage is tame To the wrath of man.' At morn, grey Allan's mates with awe Heard of the vision'd sights he saw, The legend heard him say; But the Seer's gifted eye was dim, Deafen'd his ear, and stark his limb, Ere closed that bloody day He sleeps far from his Highland heath, But often of the Dance of Death His comrades tell the tale, On picquet-post, when ebbs the night, And waning watch-fires glow less bright, And dawn is glimmering pale. When the Southern invader spread waste and disorder, At the glance of her crescents he paused and withdrew, For around them were marshall'd the pride of the Border, The Flowers of the Forest, the Then up with the Banner, &c. A Stripling's weak hand to our revel has borne her, No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no spearmen surround; But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should scorn her, A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground. Then up with the Banner, &c. We forget each contention of civil dissension, And hail, like our brethren, Home, Douglas, and Car: And Elliot and Pringle in pastime shall mingle, As welcome in peace as their fathers in war. Then up with the Banner, &c. Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the weather, And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall, There are worse things in life than a tumble on heather, And life is itself but a game at football. Then up with the Banner, &c. And when it is over, we'll drink a blithe measure To each Laird and each Lady that witness'd our fun, And to every blithe heart that took part in our pleasure, To the lads that have lost and the lads that have won. Then up with the Banner, &c. Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call, And renew'd the wild pomp of the chase and the hall; And the standard of Fion flash'd fierce from on high, Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is nigh. It seem'd that the harp of green Erin once more Could renew all the glories she boasted of yore. Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, shouldst thou burn? They were days of delusion, and cannot return. But was she, too, a phantom, the Maid who stood by, JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. (1816.) 'WHY Weep ye by the tide, ladie? But aye she loot the tears down fa' 'Now let this wilfu' grief be done, And dry that cheek so pale; And listed my lay, while she turn'd Young Frank is chief of Errington, from mine eye? Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view, Then dispersed in the sunbeam, or melted to dew? Oh! would it had been so,-oh! would that her eye Had been but a star-glance that shot through the sky, And her voice, that was moulded to melody's thrill, And lord of Langley-dale; His step is first in peaceful ha', His sword in battle keen '— But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. 'A chain of gold ye sall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair; Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair; Had been but a zephyr, that sigh'd And you, the foremost o' them a', and was still! Shall ride our forest queen 'But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, And dame and knight are there. They sought her baith by bower and ha'; The ladie was not seen! She's o'er the Border, and awa' Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 1 The first stanza is ancient. |