I.
FairBrussels, thou art far behind,Though, lingering on the morning wind,We yet may hear the hourPealed over orchard and canal,With voice prolonged and measured fall,From proud St. Michael’s tower;Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now,Where the tall beeches’ glossy boughFor many a league around,With birch and darksome oak between,Spreads deep and far a pathless screen,Of tangled forest ground.Stems planted close by stems defyThe adventurous foot—the curious eyeFor access seeks in vain;And the brown tapestry of leaves,Strewed on the blighted ground, receivesNor sun, nor air, nor rain.No opening glade dawns on our way,No streamlet, glancing to the ray,Our woodland path has crossed;And the straight causeway which we treadProlongs a line of dull arcade,Unvarying through the unvaried shadeUntil in distance lost.
II.
A brighter, livelier scene succeeds;In groups the scattering wood recedes,Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads,And corn-fields glance between;The peasant, at his labour blithe,Plies the hooked staff and shortened scythe:—But when these ears were green,Placed close within destruction’s scope,Full little was that rustic’s hopeTheir ripening to have seen!And, lo, a hamlet and its fane:—Let not the gazer with disdainTheir architecture view;For yonder rude ungraceful shrine,And disproportioned spire, are thine,ImmortalWaterloo!
III.
Fear not the heat, though full and highThe sun has scorched the autumn sky,And scarce a forest straggler nowTo shade us spreads a greenwood bough;These fields have seen a hotter dayThan e’er was fired by sunny ray,Yet one mile on—yon shattered hedgeCrests the soft hill whose long smooth ridgeLooks on the field below,And sinks so gently on the daleThat not the folds of Beauty’s veilIn easier curves can flow.Brief space from thence, the ground againAscending slowly from the plainForms an opposing screen,Which, with its crest of upland ground,Shuts the horizon all around.The softened vale betweenSlopes smooth and fair for courser’s tread;Not the most timid maid need dreadTo give her snow-white palfrey headOn that wide stubble-ground;Nor wood, nor tree, nor bush are there,Her course to intercept or scare,Nor fosse nor fence are found,Save where, from out her shattered bowers,Rise Hougomont’s dismantled towers.
IV.
Now, see’st thou aught in this lone sceneCan tell of that which late hath been?—A stranger might reply,“The bare extent of stubble-plainSeems lately lightened of its grain;And yonder sable tracks remainMarks of the peasant’s ponderous wain,When harvest-home was nigh.On these broad spots of trampled ground,Perchance the rustics danced such roundAs Teniers loved to draw;And where the earth seems scorched by flame,To dress the homely feast they came,And toiled the kerchiefed village dameAround her fire of straw.”
V.
So deem’st thou—so each mortal deems,Of that which is from that which seems:—But other harvest hereThan that which peasant’s scythe demands,Was gathered in by sterner hands,With bayonet, blade, and spear.No vulgar crop was theirs to reap,No stinted harvest thin and cheap!Heroes before each fatal sweepFell thick as ripened grain;And ere the darkening of the day,Piled high as autumn shocks, there layThe ghastly harvest of the fray,The corpses of the slain.
VI.
Ay, look again—that line, so blackAnd trampled, marks the bivouac,Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery’s track,So often lost and won;And close beside, the hardened mudStill shows where, fetlock-deep in blood,The fierce dragoon, through battle’s flood,Dashed the hot war-horse on.These spots of excavation tellThe ravage of the bursting shell—And feel’st thou not the tainted steam,That reeks against the sultry beam,From yonder trenchéd mound?The pestilential fumes declareThat Carnage has replenished thereHer garner-house profound.
VII.
Far other harvest-home and feast,Than claims the boor from scythe released,On these scorched fields were known!Death hovered o’er the maddening rout,And, in the thrilling battle-shout,Sent for the bloody banquet outA summons of his own.Through rolling smoke the Demon’s eyeCould well each destined guest espy,Well could his ear in ecstasyDistinguish every toneThat filled the chorus of the fray—From cannon-roar and trumpet-bray,From charging squadrons’ wild hurra,From the wild clang that marked their way,—Down to the dying groan,And the last sob of life’s decay,When breath was all but flown.
VIII.
Feast on, stern foe of mortal life,Feast on!—but think not that a strife,With such promiscuous carnage rife,Protracted space may last;The deadly tug of war at lengthMust limits find in human strength,And cease when these are past.Vain hope!—that morn’s o’erclouded sunHeard the wild shout of fight begunEre he attained his height,And through the war-smoke, volumed high,Still peals that unremitted cry,Though now he stoops to night.For ten long hours of doubt and dread,Fresh succours from the extended headOf either hill the contest fed;Still down the slope they drew,The charge of columns pauséd not,Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot;For all that war could doOf skill and force was proved that day,And turned not yet the doubtful frayOn bloody Waterloo.
IX.
Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were thine,When ceaseless from the distant lineContinued thunders came!Each burgher held his breath, to hearThese forerunners of havoc near,Of rapine and of flame.What ghastly sights were thine to meet,When rolling through thy stately street,The wounded showed their mangled plightIn token of the unfinished fight,And from each anguish-laden wainThe blood-drops laid thy dust like rain!How often in the distant drumHeard’st thou the fell Invader come,While Ruin, shouting to his band,Shook high her torch and gory brand!—Cheer thee, fair City! From yon stand,Impatient, still his outstretched handPoints to his prey in vain,While maddening in his eager mood,And all unwont to be withstood,He fires the fight again.
X.
“On! On!” was still his stern exclaim;“Confront the battery’s jaws of flame!Rush on the levelled gun!My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance!Each Hulan forward with his lance,My Guard—my Chosen—charge for France,France and Napoleon!”Loud answered their acclaiming shout,Greeting the mandate which sent outTheir bravest and their best to dareThe fate their leader shunned to share.ButHe, his country’s sword and shield,Still in the battle-front revealed,Where danger fiercest swept the field,Came like a beam of light,In action prompt, in sentence brief—“Soldiers, stand firm!” exclaimed the Chief,“England shall tell the fight!”
XI.
On came the whirlwind—like the lastBut fiercest sweep of tempest-blast—On came the whirlwind—steel-gleams brokeLike lightning through the rolling smoke;The war was waked anew,Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud,And from their throats, with flash and cloud,Their showers of iron threw.Beneath their fire, in full career,Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier,The lancer couched his ruthless spear,And hurrying as to havoc near,The cohorts’ eagles flew.In one dark torrent, broad and strong,The advancing onset rolled along,Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim,That, from the shroud of smoke and flame,Pealed wildly the imperial name.
XII.
But on the British heart were lostThe terrors of the charging host;For not an eye the storm that viewedChanged its proud glance of fortitude,Nor was one forward footstep stayed,As dropped the dying and the dead.Fast as their ranks the thunders tear,Fast they renewed each serried square;And on the wounded and the slainClosed their diminished files again,Till from their line scarce spears’-lengths three,Emerging from the smoke they seeHelmet, and plume, and panoply,—Then waked their fire at once!Each musketeer’s revolving knell,As fast, as regularly fell,As when they practise to displayTheir discipline on festal day.Then down went helm and lance,Down were the eagle banners sent,Down reeling steeds and riders went,Corslets were pierced, and pennons rent;And, to augment the fray,Wheeled full against their staggering flanks,The English horsemen’s foaming ranksForced their resistless way.Then to the musket-knell succeedsThe clash of swords—the neigh of steeds—As plies the smith his clanging trade,Against the cuirass rang the blade;And while amid their close arrayThe well-served cannon rent their way,And while amid their scattered bandRaged the fierce rider’s bloody brand,Recoiled in common rout and fear,Lancer and guard and cuirassier,Horsemen and foot,—a mingled hostTheir leaders fall’n, their standards lost.
XIII.
Then,Wellington! thy piercing eyeThis crisis caught of destiny—The British host had stoodThat morn ’gainst charge of sword and lanceAs their own ocean-rocks hold stance,But when thy voice had said, “Advance!”They were their ocean’s flood.—O Thou, whose inauspicious aimHath wrought thy host this hour of shame,Think’st thou thy broken bands will bideThe terrors of yon rushing tide?Or will thy chosen brook to feelThe British shock of levelled steel,Or dost thou turn thine eyeWhere coming squadrons gleam afar,And fresher thunders wake the war,And other standards fly?—Think not that in yon columns, fileThy conquering troops from distant Dyle—Is Blucher yet unknown?Or dwells not in thy memory still(Heard frequent in thine hour of ill),What notes of hate and vengeance thrillIn Prussia’s trumpet-tone?—What yet remains?—shall it be thineTo head the relics of thy lineIn one dread effort more?—The Roman lore thy leisure loved,And than canst tell what fortune provedThat Chieftain, who, of yore,Ambition’s dizzy paths essayedAnd with the gladiators’ aidFor empire enterprised—He stood the cast his rashness played,Left not the victims he had made,Dug his red grave with his own blade,And on the field he lost was laid,Abhorred—but not despised.
XIV.
But if revolves thy fainter thoughtOn safety—howsoever bought,—Then turn thy fearful rein and ride,Though twice ten thousand men have diedOn this eventful dayTo gild the military fameWhich thou, for life, in traffic tameWilt barter thus away.Shall future ages tell this taleOf inconsistence faint and frail?And art thou He of Lodi’s bridge,Marengo’s field, and Wagram’s ridge!Or is thy soul like mountain-tide,That, swelled by winter storm and shower,Rolls down in turbulence of power,A torrent fierce and wide;Reft of these aids, a rill obscure,Shrinking unnoticed, mean and poor,Whose channel shows displayedThe wrecks of its impetuous course,But not one symptom of the forceBy which these wrecks were made!
XV.
Spur on thy way!—since now thine earHas brooked thy veterans’ wish to hear,Who, as thy flight they eyedExclaimed,—while tears of anguish came,Wrung forth by pride, and rage, and shame,“O that he had but died!”But yet, to sum this hour of ill,Look, ere thou leav’st the fatal hill,Back on yon broken ranks—Upon whose wild confusion gleamsThe moon, as on the troubled streamsWhen rivers break their banks,And, to the ruined peasant’s eye,Objects half seen roll swiftly by,Down the dread current hurled—So mingle banner, wain, and gun,Where the tumultuous flight rolls onOf warriors, who, when morn begun,Defied a banded world.
XVI.
List—frequent to the hurrying rout,The stern pursuers’ vengeful shoutTells, that upon their broken rearRages the Prussian’s bloody spear.So fell a shriek was none,When Beresina’s icy floodReddened and thawed with flame and blood,And, pressing on thy desperate way,Raised oft and long their wild hurra,The children of the Don.Thine ear no yell of horror cleftSo ominous, when, all bereftOf aid, the valiant Polack left—Ay, left by thee—found soldiers graveIn Leipsic’s corpse-encumbered wave.Fate, in those various perils past,Reserved thee still some future cast;On the dread die thou now hast thrownHangs not a single field alone,Nor one campaign—thy martial fame,Thy empire, dynasty, and nameHave felt the final stroke;And now, o’er thy devoted headThe last stern vial’s wrath is shed,The last dread seal is broke.
XVII.
Since live thou wilt—refuse not nowBefore these demagogues to bow,Late objects of thy scorn and hate,Who shall thy once imperial fateMake wordy theme of vain debate.—Or shall we say, thou stoop’st less lowIn seeking refuge from the foe,Against whose heart, in prosperous life,Thine hand hath ever held the knife?Such homage hath been paidBy Roman and by Grecian voice,And there were honour in the choice,If it were freely made.Then safely come—in one so low,—So lost,—we cannot own a foe;Though dear experience bid us end,In thee we ne’er can hail a friend.—Come, howsoe’er—but do not hideClose in thy heart that germ of pride,Erewhile, by gifted bard espied,That “yet imperial hope;”Think not that for a fresh rebound,To raise ambition from the ground,We yield thee means or scope.In safety come—but ne’er againHold type of independent reign;No islet calls thee lord,We leave thee no confederate band,No symbol of thy lost command,To be a dagger in the handFrom which we wrenched the sword.
XVIII.
Yet, even in yon sequestered spot,May worthier conquest be thy lotThan yet thy life has known;Conquest, unbought by blood or harm,That needs nor foreign aid nor arm,A triumph all thine own.Such waits thee when thou shalt controlThose passions wild, that stubborn soul,That marred thy prosperous scene:—Hear this—from no unmovéd heart,Which sighs, comparing whatTHOU ARTWith what thouMIGHT’ST HAVE BEEN!
XIX.
Thou, too, whose deeds of fame renewedBankrupt a nation’s gratitude,To thine own noble heart must oweMore than the meed she can bestow.For not a people’s just acclaim,Not the full hail of Europe’s fame,Thy Prince’s smiles, the State’s decree,The ducal rank, the gartered knee,Not these such pure delight affordAs that, when hanging up thy sword,Well may’st thou think, “This honest steelWas ever drawn for public weal;And, such was rightful Heaven’s decree,Ne’er sheathed unless with victory!”
XX.
Look forth, once more, with softened heart,Ere from the field of fame we part;Triumph and Sorrow border near,And joy oft melts into a tear.Alas! what links of love that mornHas War’s rude hand asunder torn!For ne’er was field so sternly fought,And ne’er was conquest dearer bought,Here piled in common slaughter sleepThose whom affection long shall weepHere rests the sire, that ne’er shall strainHis orphans to his heart again;The son, whom, on his native shore,The parent’s voice shall bless no more;The bridegroom, who has hardly pressedHis blushing consort to his breast;The husband, whom through many a yearLong love and mutual faith endear.Thou canst not name one tender tie,But here dissolved its relics lie!Oh! when thou see’st some mourner’s veilShroud her thin form and visage pale,Or mark’st the Matron’s bursting tearsStream when the stricken drum she hears;Or see’st how manlier grief, suppressed,Is labouring in a father’s breast,—With no inquiry vain pursueThe cause, but think on Waterloo!
XXI.
Period of honour as of woes,What bright careers ’twas thine to close!—Marked on thy roll of blood what namesTo Britain’s memory, and to Fame’s,Laid there their last immortal claims!Thou saw’st in seas of gore expireRedoubtedPicton’ssoul of fire—Saw’st in the mingled carnage lieAll that ofPonsonbycould die—De Lanceychange Love’s bridal-wreathFor laurels from the hand of Death—Saw’st gallantMiller’sfailing eyeStill bent where Albion’s banners fly,AndCameron, in the shock of steel,Die like the offspring of Lochiel;And generousGordon, ’mid the strife,Fall while he watched his leader’s life.—Ah! though her guardian angel’s shieldFenced Britain’s hero through the field.Fate not the less her power made known,Through his friends’ hearts to pierce his own!
XXII.
Forgive, brave Dead, the imperfect lay!Who may your names, your numbers, say?What high-strung harp, what lofty line,To each the dear-earned praise assign,From high-born chiefs of martial fameTo the poor soldier’s lowlier name?Lightly ye rose that dawning day,From your cold couch of swamp and clay,To fill, before the sun was low,The bed that morning cannot know.—Oft may the tear the green sod steep,And sacred be the heroes’ sleep,Till time shall cease to run;And ne’er beside their noble grave,May Briton pass and fail to craveA blessing on the fallen braveWho fought with Wellington!
XXIII.
Farewell, sad Field! whose blighted faceWears desolation’s withering trace;Long shall my memory retainThy shattered huts and trampled grain,With every mark of martial wrong,That scathe thy towers, fair Hougomont!Yet though thy garden’s green arcadeThe marksman’s fatal post was made,Though on thy shattered beeches fellThe blended rage of shot and shell,Though from thy blackened portals torn,Their fall thy blighted fruit-trees mourn,Has not such havoc bought a nameImmortal in the rolls of fame?Yes—Agincourt may be forgot,And Cressy be an unknown spot,And Blenheim’s name be new;But still in story and in song,For many an age remembered long,Shall live the towers of HougomontAnd Field of Waterloo!
Sterntide of human Time! that know’st not rest,But, sweeping from the cradle to the tomb,Bear’st ever downward on thy dusky breastSuccessive generations to their doom;While thy capacious stream has equal roomFor the gay bark where Pleasure’s steamers sport,And for the prison-ship of guilt and gloom,The fisher-skiff, and barge that bears a court,Still wafting onward all to one dark silent port;—
Stern tide of Time! through what mysterious changeOf hope and fear have our frail barks been driven!For ne’er, before, vicissitude so strangeWas to one race of Adam’s offspring given.And sure such varied change of sea and heaven,Such unexpected bursts of joy and woe,Such fearful strife as that where we have striven,Succeeding ages ne’er again shall know,Until the awful term when Thou shalt cease to flow.
Well hast thou stood, my Country!—the brave fightHast well maintained through good report and ill;In thy just cause and in thy native might,And in Heaven’s grace and justice constant still;Whether the banded prowess, strength, and skillOf half the world against thee stood arrayed,Or when, with better views and freer will,Beside thee Europe’s noblest drew the blade,Each emulous in arms the Ocean Queen to aid.
Well art thou now repaid—though slowly rose,And struggled long with mists thy blaze of fame,While like the dawn that in the orient glowsOn the broad wave its earlier lustre came;Then eastern Egypt saw the growing flame,And Maida’s myrtles gleamed beneath its ray,Where first the soldier, stung with generous shame,Rivalled the heroes of the watery way,And washed in foemen’s gore unjust reproach away.
Now, Island Empress, wave thy crest on high,And bid the banner of thy Patron flow,Gallant Saint George, the flower of Chivalry,For thou halt faced, like him, a dragon foe,And rescued innocence from overthrow,And trampled down, like him, tyrannic might,And to the gazing world may’st proudly showThe chosen emblem of thy sainted Knight,Who quelled devouring pride and vindicated right.
Yet ’mid the confidence of just renown,Renown dear-bought, but dearest thus acquired,Write, Britain, write the moral lesson down:’Tis not alone the heart with valour fired,The discipline so dreaded and admired,In many a field of bloody conquest known,—Such may by fame be lured, by gold be hired:’Tis constancy in the good cause aloneBest justifies the meed thy valiant sons have won.
I.
Nightand morning were at meetingOver Waterloo;Cocks had sung their earliest greeting;Faint and low they crew,For no paly beam yet shoneOn the heights of Mount Saint John;Tempest-clouds prolonged the swayOf timeless darkness over day;Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and showerMarked it a predestined hour.Broad and frequent through the nightFlashed the sheets of levin-light:Muskets, glancing lightnings back,Showed the dreary bivouacWhere the soldier lay,Chill and stiff, and drenched with rain,Wishing dawn of morn again,Though death should come with day.
II.
’Tis at such a tide and hourWizard, witch, and fiend have power,And ghastly forms through mist and showerGleam on the gifted ken;And then the affrighted prophet’s earDrinks whispers strange of fate and fearPresaging death and ruin nearAmong the sons of men;—Apart from Albyn’s war-array,’Twas then grey Allan sleepless lay;Grey Allan, who, for many a day,Had followed stout and stern,Where, through battle’s rout and reel,Storm of shot and edge of steel,Led the grandson of Lochiel,Valiant Fassiefern.Through steel and shot he leads no more,Low laid ’mid friends’ and foemen’s gore—But long his native lake’s wild shore,And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower,And Morven long shall tell,And proud Bennevis hear with aweHow, upon bloody Quatre-Bras,Brave Cameron heard the wild hurraOf conquest as he fell.
III.
Lone on the outskirts of the host,The weary sentinel held post,And heard, through darkness far aloof,The frequent clang of courser’s hoof,Where held the cloaked patrol their course,And spurred ’gainst storm the swerving horse;But there are sounds in Allan’s ear,Patrol nor sentinel may hear,And sights before his eye aghastInvisible to them have passed,When down the destined plain,’Twixt Britain and the bands of France,Wild as marsh-borne meteor’s glance,Strange phantoms wheeled a revel dance,And doomed the future slain.—Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard,When Scotland’s James his march preparedFor Flodden’s fatal plain;Such, when he drew his ruthless sword,As Choosers of the Slain, adoredThe yet unchristened Dane.An indistinct and phantom band,They wheeled their ring-dance hand in hand,With gestures wild and dread;The Seer, who watched them ride the storm,Saw through their faint and shadowy formThe lightning’s flash more red;And still their ghastly roundelayWas of the coming battle-fray,And of the destined dead.
IV.SONG.
Wheel the wild danceWhile lightnings glance,And thunders rattle loud,And call the braveTo bloody grave,To sleep without a shroud.
Our airy feet,So light and fleet,They do not bend the ryeThat sinks its head when whirlwinds rave,And swells again in eddying wave,As each wild gust blows by;But still the corn,At dawn of morn,Our fatal steps that bore,At eve lies waste,A trampled pasteOf blackening mud and gore.Wheel the wild danceWhile lightnings glance,And thunders rattle loud,And call the braveTo bloody grave,To sleep without a shroud.
V.
Wheel the wild dance!Brave sons of France,For you our ring makes room;Make space full wideFor martial pride,For banner, spear, and plume.Approach, draw near,Proud cuirassier!Room for the men of steel!Through crest and plateThe broadsword’s weightBoth head and heart shall feel.
VI.
Wheel the wild danceWhile lightnings glance,And thunders rattle loud,And call the braveTo bloody grave,To sleep without a shroud.
Sons of the spear!You feel us nearIn many a ghastly dream;With fancy’s eyeOur forms you spy,And hear our fatal scream.With clearer sightEre falls the night,Just when to weal or woeYour disembodied souls take flightOn trembling wing—each startled spriteOur choir of death shall know.
VII.
Wheel the wild danceWhile lightnings glance,And thunders rattle loud,And call the braveTo bloody grave,To sleep without a shroud.
Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers,Redder rain shall soon be ours—See the east grows wan—Yield we place to sterner game,Ere deadlier bolts and direr flameShall the welkin’s thunders shame,Elemental rage is tameTo the wrath of man.
VIII.
At morn, grey Allan’s mates with aweHeard of the visioned sights he saw,The legend heard him say;But the Seer’s gifted eye was dim,Deafened his ear, and stark his limb,Ere closed that bloody day.He sleeps far from his Highland heath,But often of the Dance of DeathHis comrades tell the taleOn picquet-post, when ebbs the night,And waning watch-fires glow less bright,And dawn is glimmering pale.
[The original of this little Romance makes part of a manuscript collection of French Songs, probably compiled by some young officer, which was found on the field of Waterloo, so much stained with clay and with blood as sufficiently to indicate what had been the fate of its late owner. The song is popular in France, and is rather a good specimen of the style of composition to which it belongs. The translation is strictly literal.]
Itwas Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine,But first he made his orisons before Saint Mary’s shrine:“And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven,” was still the Soldier’s prayer;“That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the fairest fair.”
His oath of honour on the shrine he graved it with his sword,And followed to the Holy Land the banner of his Lord;Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war-cry filled the air,“Be honoured aye the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair.”
They owed the conquest to his arm, and then his Liege-Lord said,“The heart that has for honour beat by bliss must be repaid.—My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair,For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest of the fair.”
And then they bound the holy knot before Saint Mary’s shrine,That makes a paradise on earth, if hearts and hands combine;And every lord and lady bright that were in chapel thereCried, “Honoured be the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair!”
Glowingwith love, on fire for fameA Troubadour that hated sorrowBeneath his lady’s window came,And thus he sung his last good-morrow:“My arm it is my country’s right,My heart is in my true-love’s bower;Gaily for love and fame to fightBefits the gallant Troubadour.”
And while he marched with helm on headAnd harp in hand, the descant rung,As faithful to his favourite maid,The minstrel-burden still he sung:“My arm it is my country’s right,My heart is in my lady’s bower;Resolved for love and fame to fightI come, a gallant Troubadour.”
Even when the battle-roar was deep,With dauntless heart he hewed his way,’Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,And still was heard his warrior-lay:“My life it is my country’s right,My heart is in my lady’s bower;For love to die, for fame to fight,Becomes the valiant Troubadour.”
Alas! upon the bloody fieldHe fell beneath the foeman’s glaive,But still reclining on his shield,Expiring sung the exulting stave:—“My life it is my country’s right,My heart is in my lady’s bower;For love and fame to fall in fightBecomes the valiant Troubadour.”
[This is a very ancient pibroch belonging to Clan MacDonald. The words of the set, theme, or melody, to which the pipe variations are applied, run thus in Gaelic:—
Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil;Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil;Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil;Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi.The pipe-summons of Donald the Black,The pipe-summons of Donald the Black,The war-pipe and the pennon are on the gathering-place at Inverlochy.]
Pibrochof Donuil Dhu,Pibroch of Donuil,Wake thy wild voice anew,Summon Clan Conuil.Come away, come away,Hark to the summons!Come in your war array,Gentles and commons.
Come from deep glen, andFrom mountain so rocky,The war-pipe and pennonAre at Inverlochy.Come every hill-plaid, andTrue heart that wears one,Come every steel blade, andStrong hand that bears one.
Leave untended the herd,The flock without shelter;Leave the corpse uninterr’d,The bride at the altar;Leave the deer, leave the steer,Leave nets and barges:Come with your fighting gear,Broadswords and targes.
Come as the winds come, whenForests are rended;Come as the waves come, whenNavies are stranded:Faster come, faster come,Faster and faster,Chief, vassal, page and groom,Tenant and master.
Fast they come, fast they come;See how they gather!Wide waves the eagle plume,Blended with heather.Cast your plaids, draw your blades,Forward each man set!Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,Knell for the onset!
[9]This eText comes from a book (Pike Country Ballads and Other Poems, 1891 George Routledge) which contains a number of poems by John Hay. These have been released separately by Project Gutenberg under the title “Pike Country Ballads and Other Poems” by John Hay. They are not included here to avoid duplication.
[164]The literal translation ofFuentes d’Honoro.