The clangour of the trumpet lowde—
Be soundes from heaven that come.
And, oh! the thundering presse of knightes,
Whenas their war-cryes swelle,
May tole from heaven an angel bright,
And rowse a fiend from hell.
Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
And don your helmes amaine;
Deathe's couriers, fame and honour, call
Us to the fielde againe.
No shrewish tears shall fill our eye
When the sworde-hilt's in our hand;
Hearte-whole we'll parte, and no whit sighe
For the fayrest of the land.
Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
Thus weepe and puling crye;
Our buisnesse is like men to fighte,
And like to heroes, die!
Myot’s lofty brow.
[Thomas Smail.—Here first printed. Myot hill, situated about two miles west of Denny, in Stirlingshire, affords a varied and beautiful prospect of the banks of "the dark-winding Carron, still pleasing to see," the Ochill hills, Firth of Forth, Arthur's Seat, Edinburgh and Glasgow Railway and Canal, &c.; and is much resorted to by pedestrians.]
Again on Myot's lofty brow,
With bounding heart I stand,
Commanding many a lovely view
Of hill, and dale, and strand.
Here often in my youthful days
I ran with joyous glee;
But far I've wander'd since through life,
On land, on lake, on sea.
My early friends who shar'd my joy,
Whose mirth resounded high,
Where now are they? In death's embrace,
Within the grave, they lie.
Our youthful days! when hopes were bright,
And all appear'd serene,
How ill-exchang'd for other times
Of life's rough chequer'd scene.
'Tis here, when all is past and gone,
I'd like my grave to be;
But mark'd by no sepulchral stone,
Or weeping willow-tree.
For here in life my breast full gush'd
With joyous tides of glee;
And here in death, when all is hush'd,
My heart may throb to be.
The Trystin’ Tree.
[By William Air Foster, formerly of Coldstream, now of Glasgow.—Here first printed.]
The birk grows green on Kennel banks,
Brume flowers on Coldstream braes,
The plantains fair on Corn'el haughs
Ha'e on their summer claes.
Tweed, rowin' in the gloamin light
That streams on haugh and lea,
Sheds beauty owre the landscape bright,
Around the trystin' tree.
The merle likes the slae buss weel,
Whar grows the berry blue,
The muirfool likes the heather bell,
Whan draiket wi' the dew;
And weel I lo'e the bonnie lad
That couppit hearts wi' me,
Whan seated, on yon summer night,
Beneath the trystin' tree.
A' nature wears a summer hue:
The sun sinks down serene,
The lamb sports round the bleatin' ewe,
On bonnie Kennel green;
The mavis frae the auld kirk brae
Pours out his nttes wi' glee,
And the laverock twits a merry lay
Aboon the trystin' tree.
Then wha wad hunt for warld's gear,
Or sacrifice for gain?
The hame spot hearts aye haud sae dear
Whan far across the main.
For lordly walth and a' its fyke,
I'm sure I wadna gi'e
The kiss I gat frae him I like
Beneath the trystin' tree.
