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A FAREWELL.

55

A FAREWELL.

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
And fill it in a silver tassie;
That I may drink before I go

A service to my bonnie lassie:
The boat rocks at the pier of Leith,

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry,

The ship rides by the Berwick-law,
And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are rankéd ready;

The shouts o' war are heard afar,

The battle closes thick and bloody: But it's not the roar o' sea or shore

Wad make me langer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

R. Burns.

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THE MINSTREL-BOY.

THE MINSTREL-BOY.

THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.—
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
“Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!”

The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, “No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the brave and free,
They shall never sound in slavery!"

T. Moore.

BANNOCKBURN.

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BANNOCKBURN.

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victory!

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower:

See approach proud Edward's pow'r-
Chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha would fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's King and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa'?
Let him on wi' me!

By Oppression's woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do, or die!

R. Burns.

58

LIBERTY OR DEATH.

LIBERTY OR DEATH.

OH, where's the slave so lowly
Condemned to chains unholy,
Who, could he burst

His bonds at first,

Would pine beneath them slowly?
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait till time decayed it,
When thus its wing

At once may spring

To the throne of Him who made it?
Farewell, Erin,-farewell, all
Who live to weep our fall.

Less dear the laurel growing
Alive, untouched, and blowing,
Than that whose braid
Is plucked to shade

The brows with victory glowing.
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,
The friends we've tried
Are by our side,

And the foe we hate before us.
Farewell, Erin,-farewell, all
Who live to weep our fall.

T. Mocre.

THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

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THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France!

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the

waters,

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,

For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls

annoy.

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our

land!

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand!

And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

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