And in streams flashing redly

Blazed the fires;

As the roar,

On the shore,

Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres Of the plain;

And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder, Cracking amain !

With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor On our flanks.

Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks!

Then the old-fashioned colonel

Galloped through the white infernal
Powder-cloud;

And his broad sword was swinging,
And his brazen throat was ringing

Trumpet loud.

Then the blue
Bullets flew,

And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden

Rifle-breath;

And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder,

Hurling death!

GUY HUMPHREY MCMASTER.

BANNOCKBURN.

123

Bannockburn.

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

COTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,

SCOT

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 power-
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,
Freeman stand, or freeman 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!

ROBERT BUrns.

A

The Cavalier's Song.

STEED! a steed of matchlesse speed,
A sword of metal keene!

All else to noble heartes is drosse,

All else on earth is meane.

The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde,

The rowlinge of the drum,

THE SONG OF THE COSSACK.

The clangor of the trumpet lowde,

Be soundes from heaven that come;
And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,
Whenas their war-cryes swell,

May tole from heaven an angel bright,

And rouse a fiend from hell.

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
And don your helmes amaine :

Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
Us to the field againe.

No shrewish teares shall fill our eye

-

When the sword-hilt's in our hand,
Heart whole we 'll part, and no whit sighe

For the fayrest of the land;

Let piping swaine and craven wight

Thus weepe and puling crye,

Our business is like men to fight,

And hero-like to die!

125

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

UP!

The Song of the Cossack.

P! friend of the Cossack! fly forth in thy might, At the blast of our trumpet, my own noble steed! All ready for plunder, all fearless for fight,

Let Death borrow wings from thy hurricane speed. Neither saddle nor rein has been garnished with gold, But the deeds of thy rider shall make them thine own; Neigh then all proudly, my courser so bold,

And trample in dust both the people and throne.

Peace flies, and surrenders thy reins to my will;
Her bulwark of strength from old Europe departs:
Then haste, let her treasures my eager hands fill;

Oh, haste, and repose in the home of her arts.

Return to the Seine, whence fresh war-notes have rolled; Thrice before have its waters thy bloody steps known; Neigh then all proudly, my courser so bold,

And trample in dust both the people and throne.

Priests, princes, and nobles, besieged by the hordes
Of subjects not ages of wrong could subdue,

Have called to the Cossack: "Come down, be our lords;
To be tyrants to them, we'll be bondmen to you.”
My lance I have seized: from their ancient stronghold
Shall the sceptre and cross lie before it o'erthrown;
Neigh then all proudly, my courser so bold,

And trample in dust both the people and throne.

A phantom strides near me all dreadful and vast,
Whose terrible eyes on our bivouac rest;
And he cries: "Lo, my reign recommences at last,"
As with hatchet uplifted he points to the west.
'Tis the chief who the Huns led to conquest of old;
O shade of the mighty, thy mandate I own;
Neigh then all proudly, my courser so bold,

And trample in dust both the people and throne.

That splendor and pomp, Europe's glory and trust;
That learning which shields not from ruin her head,
Shall all be engulfed in those billows of dust

Which around me shall rise 'neath thy thundering tread. Sweep, sweep them, as onward thy course thou shalt hold; Thrones, temples, laws, rites, in one ruin be strown;

Neigh then all proudly, my courser so bold,

And trample in dust both the people and throne.

PIERRE JEAN DE BÉRANGER.

Translated by A. C. KENDRICK.