Volume V Part 38 (2/2)
[14] This song, and the following, have been contributed by Mr Sinclair to the present work.
THE BATTLE OF STIRLING.
To Scotland's ancient realm Proud Edward's armies came, To sap our freedom, and o'erwhelm Our martial force in shame: ”It shall not be!” brave Wallace cried; ”It shall not be!” his chiefs replied; ”By the name our fathers gave her, Our steel shall drink the crimson stream, We 'll all her dearest rights redeem-- Our own broadswords shall save her!”
With hopes of triumph flush'd, The squadrons hurried o'er Thy bridge, Kildean, and heaving rush'd Like wild waves to the sh.o.r.e: ”They come--they come!” was the gallant cry; ”They come--they come!” was the loud reply; ”O strength, thou gracious Giver!
By Love and Freedom's stainless faith, We 'll dare the darkest night of death-- We 'll drive them back for ever!”
All o'er the waving broom, In chivalry and grace, Shone England's radiant spear and plume, By Stirling's rocky base: And, stretching far beneath the view, Proud Cressingham! thy banners flew, When, like a torrent rus.h.i.+ng, O G.o.d! from right and left the flame Of Scottish swords like lightning came, Great Edward's legions crus.h.i.+ng!
High praise, ye gallant band, Who, in the face of day, With a daring heart and a fearless hand, Have cast your chains away!
The foemen fell on every side-- In crimson hues the Forth was dyed-- Bedew'd with blood the heather, While cries triumphal shook the air-- ”Thus shall they do, thus shall they dare, Wherever Scotsmen gather!”
Though years like shadows fleet O'er the dial-stone of Time, Thy pulse, O Freedom! still shall beat With the throb of manhood's prime!
Still shall the valour, love, and truth, That shone on Scotland's early youth, From Scotland ne'er dissever; The Shamrock, Rose, and Thistle stern Shall wave around her Wallace cairn, And bless the brave for ever!
WILLIAM MILLER.
The writer of Nursery Songs in ”Whistle Binkie,” William Miller, was born at Parkhead, Glasgow, about the year 1812. He follows the profession of a cabinet-turner in his native city. ”Ye cowe a',” which we subjoin, amply ent.i.tles him to a place among the minstrels of his country.
YE COWE A'.
AIR--_”Comin' through the rye.”_
I wiled my la.s.s wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's leafy shade And a' that fondest heart can feel, or tongue can tell, I said; But nae reply my la.s.sie gied--I blamed the waterfa'; Its deavin' soun' her voice might droun'. ”Oh, it cowes a'!
Oh, it cowes a'!” quo' I; ”oh, it cowes a'!
I wonder how the birds can woo--oh, it cowes a'!”
I wiled my la.s.s wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's solemn grove, Where silence in her dewy bowers hush'd a' sounds but o' love; Still frae my earnest looks an' vows she turn'd her head awa'; Nae cheerin' word the silence heard. ”Oh, this cowes a'!
Oh, this cowes a'!” quo' I; ”oh, this cowes a'!”
To woo I 'll try anither way--for this cowes a'!”
I wiled my la.s.s wi' lovin' words to where the moonlight fell, Upon a bank o' bloomin' flowers, beside the pear-tree well; Say, modest moon, did I do wrang to clasp her waist sae sma', And steal ae kiss o' honey'd bliss? ”Oh, ye cowe a'!
Oh, ye cowe a'!” quo' she; ”oh, ye cowe a'!
Ye might hae speer'd a body's leave--oh, ye cowe a'!”
”I 'll to the clerk,” quo' I, ”sweet la.s.s; on Sunday we 'll be cried, And frae your father's house, next day, ye 'll gang a dear-lo'ed bride.”
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