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We talk the battle over,
And share the battle spoil.
As if a hunt were up,
To crown the soldier's cup.
That in the pine-top grieves,
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;
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment — and away!
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,
Or to victorie.
Now's the day, and now's the hour;
Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave ?
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 !
But they shall be free!
Let us do, or die!
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,
In Tyrol's holy land.
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,
The portal's gloomy arch;
Brave Tyrol's gallant son.
They bade him then kneel down,
He answered, “I will not!
As I have stood and fought,
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 faithful harp shall praise thee!”
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,
Turned to the skies;