Volume V Part 13 (2/2)

'Twas Britain broke the charm, And with her red right arm She rung the loud alarm To be free.

The battle van she led Of the brave, Of the brave; The battle van she led Of the brave; The battle van she led, Till tyranny lay dead, And glory crown'd the head Of the brave.

Give honour to the brave Where they lie, Where they lie; Give honour to the brave Where they lie; Give honour to the brave, And sacred be the grave, On land or in the wave, Where they lie.

WILLIAM BLAIR.

William Blair, author of ”The Highland Maid,” was, in the year 1800, born at Dunfermline. The son of respectable parents of the industrial cla.s.s, he received an ordinary education at the burgh school.

Apprenticed to the loom, he became known as a writer of verses; and having attracted the notice of an officer's lady, then resident in the place, he was at her expense sent to the grammar school. Having made some progress in cla.s.sical learning, he was recommended for educational employment in Dollar Academy; but no suitable situation being vacant at the period of his application, he was led to despair of emanating from the humble condition of his birth. A settled melancholy was afterwards succeeded by symptoms of permanent imbecility. For a number of years Blair has been an inmate of the Dunfermline poor house.

THE HIGHLAND MAID.

Again the laverock seeks the sky, And warbles, dimly seen; And summer views, wi' sunny joy, Her gowany robe o' green.

But ah! the summer's blithe return, In flowery pride array'd, Nae mair can cheer this heart forlorn, Or charm the Highland Maid.

My true love fell by Charlie's side, Wi' mony a clansman dear; That fatal day--oh, wae betide The cruel Southron's spear!

His bonnet blue is fallen now, And bluidy is the plaid, That aften on the mountain's brow, Has wrapt his Highland Maid.

My father's s.h.i.+eling on the hill Is dowie now and sad; The breezes whisper round me still, I 've lost my Highland lad.

Upon Culloden's fatal heath, He spake o' me, they said, And falter'd, wi' his dying breath, ”Adieu, my Highland Maid!”

The weary nicht for rest I seek, The langsome day I mourn; The smile upon my wither'd cheek Can never mair return.

But soon beneath the sod I 'll lie, In yonder lonely glade; And, haply, ilka pa.s.ser by Will mourn the Highland Maid.

THE NEAPOLITAN WAR SONG.[10]

TUNE--_”Brian the Brave.”_

Your foes are at hand, and the brand that they wield, Soon, soon will emblazon your plain; But, ah! may the arm of the brave be your s.h.i.+eld, And the song of the victory your strain.

Remember the fetters and chains that are wove, And fated by slavery's decree, Are not like the fetters of union and love, That bind and encircle the free.

Though rich be your fields, they will blight in their bloom, With the glow of the patriot's fires; And the sun that now gladdens, shall sink into gloom, And grow dark when your freedom expires.

Be yours, then, the triumph to brave ones that 's meet, And your country, with laurels in store, Each weary and toil-worn warrior will greet When the tumult of battle is o'er.

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