Who would shun the glorious strife?
Where's the slave would cling to life,
When father, husband, daughter, wife,
For prompt relief implore ye?
Who would yield soft woman's charms
To bless a ruffian foeman's arms?
Perish the thought! sound, sound your alarms!
On to death or glory!
Here's the path to sluggard peace,
Here's the haunt of dastard ease,
That sink to death, by slow degrees,
Unhonour'd, weak, and hoary:
But ye who court a brighter name,
This way lies the road to fame;
Follow then through flood and flame,
And shout, For death or glory!
Fair in Kinrara.
[Written by the Rev. Mr. Allardice, of Forgue, in memory of the late Duchess of Gordon.—Set to music by John Knott, Aberdeen.]
Fair in Kinrara blooms the rose,
And softly waves the drooping lily,
Where beauty's faded charms repose,
And splendour rests on earth's cold pillow.
Her smile, who sleeps in yonder bed,
Could once awake the soul to pleasure,
When fashion's airy train she led,
And form'd the dance's frolic measure.
When war call'd forth our youth to arms,
Her eye inspired each martial spirit;
Her mind, too, felt the muse's charms,
And gave the meed to modest merit.
But now farewell, fair northern star,
Thy beams no more shall courts enlighten,
No more lead forth our youth to arms,
No more the rural pastures brighten.
Long, long thy loss shall Scotia mourn;
Her vales, which thou were wont to gladden,
Shall long look cheerless and forlorn,
And grief the minstrel's music sadden.
And oft, amid the festive scene,
Where pleasure cheats the midnight pillow,
A sigh shall breathe for noble Jane,
Laid low beneath Kinrara's willow.
Scotland and Charlie.
[Written and arranged by George Linley.]
Sons of the mountain glen,
Draw forth your blades again,
Loudly the pibroch's strain
Summons to glory.
Wild as the breezes blow,
Rush ye to meet the foe,
Onward and boldly go,
Fame lies before ye.
In every bonnet's seen
Eagle's plume, waving 'tween
Sprigs of the heather green,
Blooming so fairly.
Forward then, forward then,
Sons of the mountain glen,
Be your war cry again—
Scotland and Charlie.
Who would shrink from thee,
Land of the brave and free?
Who tamely bend the knee
To an invader?
Who that with sword and might
Would not for freedom fight,
And die for Scotland's right,
Ere he betray'd her?
Forward then, forward then,
Sons of the mountain glen,
See! the white rose again
Blooming so fairly.
Follow then, follow then,
Bonnie brave Highlandmen,
Be your war cry again—
Scotland and Charlie.
The Maid of Islay.
[Joseph Train.]
Rising o'er the heaving billow,
Evening gilds the ocean's swell,
While with thee, on grassy pillow,
Solitude! I love to dwell.
Lonely to the sea breeze blowing,
Oft I chaunt my love-lorn strain,
To the streamlet sweetly flowing,
Murmur oft a lover's pain.
