'Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pa.s.s On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned: Thy heart with some sweet British la.s.s Must be impa.s.sioned.'

'I have no sweetheart,' said the lad; 'But--absent long from one another-- Great was the longing that I had To see my mother.'

'And so thou shalt,' Napoleon said, 'Ye've both my favour fairly won; A n.o.ble mother must have bred So brave a son.'

He gave the tar a piece of gold, And, with a flag of truce, commanded He should be shipped to England Old, And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift To find a dinner, plain and hearty; But _never_ changed the coin and gift Of Bonaparte.

_Campbell._

LXVI

'YE MARINERS'

Ye Mariners of England!

That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave!

For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, As they roar on the sh.o.r.e, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean warriors!

Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

_Campbell._

LXVII

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC

Of Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath, For a time.

But the might of England flushed To antic.i.p.ate the scene; And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly s.p.a.ce between.

'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane, To our cheering sent us back;-- Their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- Then cease--and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail; Or, in conflagration pale Light the gloom.

Now joy, Old England, raise For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

_Campbell._

LXVIII

BATTLE SONG

Day, like our souls, is fiercely dark; What then? 'Tis day!

We sleep no more; the c.o.c.k crows--hark!

To arms! away!

They come! they come! the knell is rung Of us or them; Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung Of gold and gem.

What collared hound of lawless sway, To famine dear, What pensioned slave of Attila, Leads in the rear?

Come they from Scythian wilds afar Our blood to spill?

Wear they the livery of the Czar?

They do his will.

Nor ta.s.selled silk, nor epaulette, Nor plume, nor torse-- No splendour gilds, all sternly met, Our foot and horse.

But, dark and still, we inly glow, Condensed in ire!

Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know Our gloom is fire.

In vain your pomp, ye evil powers, Insults the land; Wrongs, vengeance, and _the cause_ are ours, And G.o.d's right hand!

Madmen! they trample into snakes The wormy clod!

Like fire, beneath their feet awakes The sword of G.o.d!

Behind, before, above, below, They rouse the brave; Where'er they go, they make a foe, Or find a grave.

_Elliott._

LXIX

LOYALTY

Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyaltie's begun for to fa', The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a'; But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!