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Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victory!

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o’ battle lower:
See approach proud Edward's pow'r-

Chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha would fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?

Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's King and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa'?

Let him on wi' me!

By Oppression's woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do, or die!

R. Burns.




Oh, where's the slave so lowly
Condemned to chains unholy,

Who, could he burst

His bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly!
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait till time decayed it,

When thus its wing

At once may spring
To the throne of Him who made it!

Farewell, Erin,-farewell, all
Who live to weep our fall.

Less dear the laurel growing
Alive, untouched, and blowing,

Than that whose braid

Is plucked to shade
The brows with victory glowing.
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,

The friends we've tried

Are by our side,
And the foe we hate before us.

Farewell, Erin--farewell, all
Who live to weep our fall.

T. Moore.




Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant

land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the

waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls

annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our

land! And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his

hand! And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled

flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.



The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and

high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to

wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, “God save our Lord

the King!” “And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks

of war,

And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump and drum, and roaring culverin!
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the Golden Lilies now-upon them with the lance!
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in

rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow

white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding

star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned

his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is

slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay

gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and

cloven mail;



And then, we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, “Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to

man; But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.” Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne!
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall

return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spear

men's souls ! Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be

bright! Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to

night! For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised

the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the

brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre.

Lord Macaulay.

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