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We talk the battle over,

And share the battle spoil.
The woodland rings with laugh and shout,

As if a hunt were up,
And woodland flowers are gathered

To crown the soldier's cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind

That in the pine-top grieves,
And slumber long and sweetly

On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon

The band that Marion leads The glitter of their rifles,

The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb

Across the moonlit plain;
'Tis life to feel the night-wind

That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp,

A moment — and away!
Back to the pathless forest

Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,

Grave men with hoary hairs; Their hearts are all with Marion,

For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band

With kindliest welcoming,

With smiles like those of summer,

And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms,

And lay them down no more, Till we have driven the Briton

Forever from our shore !



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

Or to victorie.

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower;
See approach proud Edward's power

Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave ?
Wha can 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, Freeman stand, or freeman 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!

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AT Mantua in chains

The gallant Hofer lay, In Mantua to death

Led him the foe away; His brothers' hearts bled for the chief, For Germany disgrace and grief

And Tyrol's mountain-land ! His hands behind him clasped,

With firm and measured pace, Marched Andrew Hofer on;

He feared not death to face,
Death whom from Iselberg aloft
Into the vale he sent so oft,

In Tyrol's holy land.
But when from dungeon-grate,

In Mantua's stronghold,

Their hands on high he saw

His faithful brothers hold, “O God be with you all!” he said, “And with the German realm betrayed,

And Tyrol's holy land !”

The drummer's hand refused

To beat the solemn march,
While Andrew Hofer passed

The portal's gloomy arch;
In fetters shackled, yet so free,
There on the bastion stood he,

Brave Tyrol's gallant son.

They bade him then kneel down,

He answered, “I will not!
Here standing will I die,

As I have stood and fought,
As now I tread this bulwark's bank,
Long life to my good Kaiser Frank,

And, Tyrol, hail to thee!”

A grenadier then took

The bandage from his hand, While Hofer spake a prayer,

His last on earthly land. “ Mark well!” he with loud voice exclaimed, “Now fire! Ah! 'twas badly aimed !

O Tyrol, fare thee well!”




THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him; His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him. “ Land of song !” said the warrior bard,

Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy right shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!”
The Minstrel fell!— but the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under: The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder; And said, “No chain shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and bravery ! Thy songs were made for the brave and free,

They shall never sound in slavery!”



HERE in this leafy place

Quiet he lies,
Cold, with his sightless face

Turned to the skies;
'Tis but another dead;
All you can say is said.

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