Day, like our souls, is fiercely dark; What then? 'Tis day! We sleep no more; the cock crows--hark! To arms! away! They come! they come! the knell is rung Of us or them; Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung Of gold and gem. What collared hound of lawless sway, To famine dear, What pensioned slave of Attila, Leads in the rear? Come they from Scythian wilds afar Our blood to spill? Wear they the livery of the Czar? They do his will. Nor tasselled silk, nor epaulette, Nor plume, nor torse-- No splendour gilds, all sternly met, Our foot and horse. But, dark and still, we inly glow, Condensed in ire! Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know Our gloom is fire. In vain your pomp, ye evil powers, Insults the land; Wrongs, vengeance, and _the cause_ are ours, And God's right hand! Madmen! they trample into snakes The wormy clod! Like fire, beneath their feet awakes The sword of God! Behind, before, above, below, They rouse the brave; Where'er they go, they make a foe, Or find a grave. _Elliott._ LXIX LOYALTY Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! The green leaf o' loyaltie's begun for to fa', The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a'; But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, An' green it will grow in my ain countrie. Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! The great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save; The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave: But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e, 'I'll shine on ye yet in yere ain countrie.' Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! _Cunningham._ LXX A SEA-SONG A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast And fills the white and rustling sail And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While like the eagle free Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. O for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my lads, The good ship tight and free-- The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. There's tempest in yon hornËd moon, And lightning in yon cloud; But hark the music, mariners! The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashes free-- While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. _Cunningham._ LXXI