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 endureThink on him whom butchers murdered On the field of Magus Muir :By his sacred blood I charge ye,

By the ruin'd hearth and shrineBy the blighted hopes of Scotland, By your injuries and mineStrike 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 nor 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.

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 bracken,

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 field 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 Locheill!

Horse and man went down like drift-wood
When the floods are black at Yule,
And their carcases 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 the 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!

THEY brought him to the Watergate,
Hard bound with hempen span,
As though they held a lion there,
And not a 'fenceless man.
They set him high upon a cart-
The hangman rode below-
They drew his hands behind his back,
And bared his noble brow.

Then, as a hound is slipped from leash,
They cheered the common throng,
And blew the note with yell and shout,
And bade him pass along.

It would have made a brave man's heart
Grow sad and sick that day,

To watch the keen malignant eyes
Bent down on that array:

There stood the Whig west-country lords
In balcony and bow,

There sat their gaunt and withered dames, And their daughters all a-row;

And every open window

Was full as full might be,

With black-robed Covenanting carles,

That goodly sport to see!

But when he came, though pale and wan,

He looked so great and high, So noble was his manly front,

So calm his steadfast eye;The rabble rout forebore to shout, And each man held his breath, For well they knew the hero's soul

Was face to face with death. And then a mournful shudder

Through all the people crept, And some that came to scoff at him, Now turned aside and wept.

Had I been there with sword in hand,
And fifty Camerons by,

That day through high Dunedin's streets,
Had pealed the slogan cry.

Not all their troops of trampling horse, Nor might of mailed men

Not all the rebels of the south

Had borne us backwards then!

Once more his foot on Highland heath
Had trod as free as air,

Or I, and all who bore my name,
Been laid around him there!

The morning dawned full darkly,
The rain came flashing down,

And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt
Lit up the gloomy town:

The heavens were thundering out their wrath,
The fatal hour was come;

Yet ever sounded sullenly

The trumpet and the drum.

There was madness on the earth below,
And anger in the sky,

And young and old, and rich and poor,
Came forth to see him die.

Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet!

How dismal 'tis to see

The great tall spectral skeleton,

The ladder, and the tree!

Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms

The bells begin to toll

He is coming! he is coming!
God's mercy on his soul!

One last long peal of thunder

The clouds are cleared away,

And the glorious sun once more looks down Amidst the dazzling day.

[Lord Willoughby d Eresby succeeded Lord Leicester in command of the English forces in the United Provinces after the siege of Zutphen, 1586.]

THE fifteenth of July,

With glistening spear and shield,
A famous fight in Flanders
Was foughten in the field;
The most courageous officers

Were English captains three,
But the bravest man in battle
Was brave Lord Willoughby.
The next was Captain Morris,
A valiant man was he;
The other, Captain Turner,

From field would never flee.

With fifteen hundred fighting men-
Alas, there were no more,-

They fought with fourteen thousand men
Upon the bloody shore.

'Stand to it, noble pikemen,

And look you round about!
And shoot you right, you bowmen,
And we will keep them out!
You musquet and caliver men,
Do you prove true to me;
I'll be the foremost in the fight!'
Says brave Lord Willoughby.

And then the bloody enemy
They fiercely did assail;

And fought it out most furiously,
Not doubting to prevail.

The wounded men on both sides fell,
Most piteous for to see;
Yet nothing could the courage quell
Of brave Lord Willoughby.
For seven hours, to all men's view,

The fight endured sore,
Until our men so feeble grew

That they could fight no more.
And then upon dead horses

Full savoury they ate,
And drank the puddle-water-
They could not better get.
When they had fed so freely,

They kneeled on the ground,
And praised God devoutly

For the favour they had found;

And beating up their colours,
The fight they did renew,
And turning towards the Spaniard,
A thousand more they slew.

The sharp steel-pointed arrows
And bullets thick did fly;
Then did our valiant soldiers

Charge on most furiously;
Which made the Spaniards waver,
They thought it best to flee;

They feared the stout behaviour
Of brave Lord Willoughby.

And then the fearful enemy
Was quickly put to flight;
Our men pursued courageously
And caught their forces quite.
But at the last they gave a shout
Which echoed through the sky;
'God and St George for England!'
The conquerors did cry.

This news was brought to England,
With all the speed might be,

And soon our gracious Queen was told,
Of this same victory.

'O this is brave Lord Willoughby,

My love that ever won;

Of all the Lords of honour

'Tis he great deeds hath done.'

To the soldiers that were maimèd
And wounded in the fray,
The Queen allowed a pension
Of fifteenpence a day;
And from all costs and charges

See also SIR PATRICK SPENS.

DARK as the clouds of even
Ranked in the western heaven,
Waiting the breath that lifts
All the dread mass and drifts
Tempest and falling brand,
Over a ruined land,-
So still and orderly,
Arm to arm, knee to knee,
Waiting the great event,
Stands the black regiment.

Down the long dusky line
Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine;
And the bright bayonet,
Bristling and firmly set,
Flashed with a purpose grand,
Long ere the sharp command
Of the fierce rolling drum

Told them their time had come,·
Told them what work was sent
For the black regiment.

'Now!' the flag-sergeant cried,-
'Though death and hell betide,
Let the whole nations see
If we are fit to be

Free in this land; or bound
Down, like the whining hound,-
Bound with red stripes of pain
In our old chains again!'-
O, what a shout there went
From the black regiment !

'Charge!' Trump and drum awoke,
Onward the bondmen broke;
Bayonet and sabre-stroke
Vainly opposed their rush.

Through the wild battle's crush,
With but one thought aflush,
Driving their lords like chaff,

In the guns' mouths they laugh;

Or at the slippery brands
Leaping with open hands,
Down they tear man and horse,
Down in their awful course;
Trampling with bloody heel
Over the crashing steel;

All their eyes forward bent,
Rushed the black regiment.

'Freedom!' their battle-cry,—
'Freedom!' or leave to die!
Ah! and they meant the word,
Not as with us 'tis heard,
Not a mere party shout:
They gave their spirits out;
Trusted the end to God,
And on the gory sod

Rolled in triumphant blood:
Glad to strike one free blow,
Whether for weal or woe;

Glad to breathe one free breath,
Though on the lips of death;
Praying—alas! in vain!—
That they might fall again,
So they could once more see
That burst to liberty!

This was what 'Freedom' lent
To the black regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell,
But they are resting well;
Scourges and shackles strong
Never shall do them wrong.
O, to the living few,
Soldiers, be just and true!
Hail them as comrades tried;
Fight with them side by side;
Never, in field or tent,
Scorn the black regiment!

In the confusion attending the Charge of the Light Brigade, Lockwood mistook the words, passed on,' and galloped alone after Lord Cardigan and his Brigade.]

WHEN slow and faint from off the plain,
Pale wrecks of sword and gun,
Torn limbs, and faces racked with pain,
Crept upwards, one by one;
When, striving as the hopeless strive,
Ascare with shot and flame,
Few pallid riders came alive,

And marvelled as they came;

Dared any, while with corpses rife Red gleamed the ghastly track, Ride, for the love of more than life, Into the valley back?

Pierce, where the bravest tarried not, Stand, where the strongest fell, Face once again the surge of shot, The plunging hail of shell?

[He trod of old the hill* we tread,
He played the games we play;
The part of him that is not dead
Belongs to us to-day;

When next the stranger scans the wall
Where carved our heroes are,
Wits-poets-statesmen-show them all,
And then,. the one hussar.]

He sought his chief—a dim reply
From waving hand was brought;
'Passed on'-to safety, meant the cry;
Amid the guns, he thought;

• Harrow Hill. Lockwood was an old Harrovian.

No question more; in purpose clear
His soldier's creed was strong;
Where rode, he knew, the brigadier,
Must ride the aide-de-camp!

He turned his horse's bridle round,
Ere one could breathe a breath,
And fronted, as on practice ground,
The nearest way to death.
In pride of manhood's ripest spring,
Hopes high, and honour won,
He deemed his life a little thing,
And rode, a soldier, on.

Up, slow, the homeward remnant fled,
Staggered, and fell, and ran;
Down moved, through flying and through dead,
One hopeless splendid man;

Alone, unrecked in heat of fray,

He stemmed the wave of flight,
And passed in smoke and flame away
From safety and from sight.

So ends the story; comrade none
Saw where he wounded lay;
No brother helped with cheering tone
His stricken life away;

Alone, the pain, the chill, the dread,
Crept on him, limb by limb;
The earth which hides the nameless dead
Closed nameless over him.

O Soldier of a bloodless strife,

O friends in work and play,
Bear we not all a coward life
Some moment in the day?
So, lest a deed of gallant faith
Forgotten fade from view,

I take the tale of Lockwood's death,
And write it down for you.

WHAT was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly by the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river:
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.