To hear of her famed ones let none e'er demand, For the hours o' a' time far too little would prove To name but the names that we honour and love.

The bard lives in light, though his heart it be still, And the cairn of the warrior stands gray on the hill, And songster and sage can alike still command A garland of fame from our ain native land.

Our ain native land! our ain native land!

Her wild woods are glorious, her waterfalls grand, And her songs still proclaim, as they ring through the glen, The charms of her maids and the worth of her men.

Her thistle shall cease in the breezes to wave, And the floweret to bloom on the patriot's grave, Ere we cease to defend, with our heart and our hand, The freedom and faith of our ain native land.

THE GRECIAN WAR SONG.

On! on to the fields, where of old The laurels of freedom were won; Let us think, as the banners of Greece we unfold, Of the brave in the pages of glory enroll'd, And the deeds by our forefathers done!

O yet, if there's aught that is dear, Let bravery's arm be its shield; Let love of our country give power to each spear, And beauty's pale cheek dry its long-gather'd tear In the light of the weapons we wield.

Awake then to glory, that Greece yet may be The land--the proud land of the famed and the free!

Rear! rear the proud trophies once more, Where Persia's hosts were o'erthrown; Let the song of our triumph arise on our sh.o.r.e, Till the mountains give back the far sounds, as of yore, To the fields where our foemen lie strewn!

Oh ne'er shall our bold efforts cease Till the garlands of freedom shall wave In breezes, which, fraught with the tidings of peace, Shall wander o'er all the fair islands of Greece, And cool not the lip of a slave; Awake then to glory! that Greece yet may be The land--the proud land of the famed and the free!

FLORA'S LAMENT.

More dark is my soul than the scenes of yon islands, Dismantled of all the gay hues that they wore; For lost is my hope since the Prince of the Highlands 'Mong these, his wild mountains, can meet me no more.

Ah! Charlie, how wrung was this heart when it found thee Forlorn, and the die of thy destiny cast; Thy Flora was firm 'mid the perils around thee, But where were the brave of the land that had own'd thee, That she--only she--should be true to the last?

The step's in the bark on the dark heaving waters, That now should have been on the floor of a throne; And, alas for auld Scotland, her sons and her daughters!

Thy wish was their welfare, thy cause was their own.

But 'lorn may we sigh where the hill-winds awaken, And weep in the glen where the cataracts foam, And sleep where the dew-drops are deep on the bracken; Thy foot has the land of thy fathers forsaken, And more--never more will it yield thee a home.

Oh! yet when afar, in the land of the stranger, If e'er on thy spirit remembrance may be Of her who was true in these moments of danger, Reprove not the heart that still lives but for thee.

The night-shrouded flower from the dawning shall borrow A ray, all the glow of its charms to renew, But Charlie, ah! Charlie, no ray to thy Flora Can dawn from thy coming to chase the dark sorrow Which death, in thine absence, alone can subdue.

WHEN THE GLEN ALL IS STILL.

AIR--_"Cold Frosty Morning."_

When the glen all is still, save the stream of the fountain, When the shepherd has ceased o'er the dark heath to roam, And the wail of the plover awakes on the mountain, Inviting her mate to return to his home-- Oh! meet me, Eliza, adown by the wild-wood, Where the wild daisies sleep 'mong the low-lying dew, And our bliss shall be sweet as the visions of childhood, And pure as the fair star, in heaven's deep blue.

Thy locks shall be braided in drops of the gloaming, And fann'd by the far-travell'd breeze of the lawn; The spirits of heaven shall know of thy coming, And watch o'er our joy till the hour of the dawn.

No woes shall we know of dark fortune's decreeing, Of the past and the future my dreams may not be, For the light of thine eye seems the home of my being, And my soul's fondest thoughts shall be gather'd to thee.

SCOTLAND YET.[6]

Gae, bring my guid auld harp ance mair,-- Gae, bring it free and fast,-- For I maun sing another sang Ere a' my glee be past; And trow ye as I sing, my lads, The burden o't shall be Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotland's knowes, And Scotland's hills for me-- I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three.

The heath waves wild upon her hills, And foaming frae the fells, Her fountains sing o' freedom still, As they dance down the dells; And weel I lo'e the land, my lads, That's girded by the sea; Then Scotland's dales, and Scotland's vales, And Scotland's hills for me-- I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three.

The thistle wags upon the fields Where Wallace bore his blade, That gave her foemen's dearest bluid To dye her auld gray plaid; And looking to the lift, my lads, He sang this doughty glee-- Auld Scotland's right, and Scotland's might, And Scotland's hills for me-- I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three.

They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies, Where freedom's voice ne'er rang; Gie me the hills where Ossian lies, And Coila's minstrel sang; For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads, That ken nae to be free; Then Scotland's right, and Scotland's might, And Scotland's hills for me-- I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] This song, set to music by Mr Peter M'Leod, was published in a separate form, and the profits, which amounted to a considerable sum, given for the purpose of placing a parapet and railing around the monument of Burns on the Calton Hill, Edinburgh.

THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE.

I sat in the vale, 'neath the hawthorns so h.o.a.ry, And the gloom of my bosom seem'd deep as their shade, For remembrance was fraught with the far-travell'd story, That told where the dust of the minstrel was laid: I saw not his harp on the wild boughs above me, I heard not its anthems the mountains among; But the flow'rets that bloom'd on his grave were more lovely Than others would seem to the earth that belong.

"Sleep on," said my soul, "in the depths of thy slumber Sleep on, gentle bard! till the shades pa.s.s away; For the lips of the living the ages shall number That steal o'er thy heart in its couch of decay: Oh! thou wert beloved from the dawn of thy childhood, Beloved till the last of thy suffering was seen, Beloved now that o'er thee is waving the wild-wood, And the worm only living where rapture hath been.

"Till the footsteps of time are their travel forsaking, No form shall descend, and no dawning shall come, To break the repose that thy ashes are taking, And call them to life from their chamber of gloom: Yet sleep, gentle bard! for, though silent for ever, Thy harp in the hall of the chieftain is hung; No time from the mem'ry of mankind shall sever The tales that it told, and the strains that it sung."

OUR OWN LAND AND LOVED ONE.

AIR--_"Buccleuch Gathering."_

No sky shines so bright as the sky that is spread O'er the land that gave birth to the first breath we drew-- Such radiance but lives in the eye of the maid That is dear to our heart--to our heart ever true.

With her--yes, with her that this spirit has bless'd, 'Neath my dear native sky let my home only be; And the valley of flowers, and the heath-covered waste, Shall alike have a spell of enchantment for me.

Let her eye pour its light o'er the joy of my heart, Or mingle its beam with the gloom of my woe, And each shadow of care from the soul shall depart, Save of care that on her it is bliss to bestow.

My thought shall not travel to sun-lighted isles, Nor my heart own a wish for the wealth they may claim, But live and be bless'd in rewarding her smiles With the song of the harp that shall hallow her name.

The anthems of music delightful may roll, Or eloquence flow as the waves of the sea, But the sounds that enchantment can shed o'er the soul Are--the la.s.s that we love, and the land that is free!