Blackwood's Magazine/Volume 1/Issue 1/Verses
VERSES
Recited by the Author, in a Party of his Countrymen, on the Day that the News arrived of our final Victory over the French.
Now, Britain, let thy cliffs o' snaw
Look prouder o'er the merled main!
The bastard Eagle bears awa,
And ne'er shall ee thy shores again.
Look prouder o'er the merled main!
The bastard Eagle bears awa,
And ne'er shall ee thy shores again.
Bang up thy banners red an' riven!
The day's thy ain—the prize is won!
Weel may thy lions brow the heaven,
An' turn their gray beards to the sun.
The day's thy ain—the prize is won!
Weel may thy lions brow the heaven,
An' turn their gray beards to the sun.
Lang hae I bragged o' thine and thee,
Even when thy back was at the wa';
An' thou my proudest sang sail be,
As lang as I hae breath to draw.
Even when thy back was at the wa';
An' thou my proudest sang sail be,
As lang as I hae breath to draw.
Gae hang the coofs wha boded wae,
An' cauldness o'er thy efforts threw,
Lauding the fullest, sternest fae,
Frae hell's black porch that ever flew.
An' cauldness o'er thy efforts threw,
Lauding the fullest, sternest fae,
Frae hell's black porch that ever flew.
O he might conquer idiot kings,
These bars in nature's onward plan;
But fool is he the yoke that flings
O'er the unshackled soul of man.
These bars in nature's onward plan;
But fool is he the yoke that flings
O'er the unshackled soul of man.
'Tis like a cobweb o'er the breast,
That binds the giant while asleep,
Or curtain hung upon the east,
The day-light from the world to keep!
That binds the giant while asleep,
Or curtain hung upon the east,
The day-light from the world to keep!
Come, jaw your glasses to the brim!
Gar in the air your bonnets flee!
"Our gude auld king!" I'll drink to him,
As lang as I hae drink to pree.
Gar in the air your bonnets flee!
"Our gude auld king!" I'll drink to him,
As lang as I hae drink to pree.
This to the arms that well upbore
The Rose and Shamrock blooming still—
An' here's the burly plant of yore,
"The Thristle o' the Norlan' hill!"
The Rose and Shamrock blooming still—
An' here's the burly plant of yore,
"The Thristle o' the Norlan' hill!"
Auld Scotland! land o' hearts the wale!
Hard thou hast fought, and bravely won:
Lang may thy lions paw the gale,
And turn their dewlaps to the sun!
H.
Hard thou hast fought, and bravely won:
Lang may thy lions paw the gale,
And turn their dewlaps to the sun!
H.