There’s brass on the target of barkened bull-hide; There’s steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free At a toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, Ere I own a usurper, I’ll couch with the fox; And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!’ He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on, Till on Ravelston’s cliffs and on Clermiston’s lee Died away the wild war-notes of Bonnie Dundee. _Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle the horses, and call up the men, Come open the gates, and let me gae free, For it’s up with the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!_ _Sir Walter Scott._ CXL WAR-SONG To horse! to horse! the standard flies, The bugles sound the call; The Gallic navy stems the seas, The voice of battle’s on the breeze, Arouse ye, one and all! From high Dunedin’s towers we come, A band of brothers true; Our casques the leopard’s spoils surround, With Scotland’s hardy thistle crown’d; We boast the red and blue. Though tamely crouch to Gallia’s frown, Dull Holland’s tardy train; Their ravish’d toys though Romans mourn; Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn; And, foaming, gnaw the chain; Oh! had they mark’d the avenging call Their brethren’s murder gave, Disunion ne’er their ranks had mown, Nor patriot valour desperate grown, Sought freedom in the grave! Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, In Freedom’s temple born, Dress our pale cheek in timid smile, To hail a master in our isle, Or brook a victor’s scorn? No! though destruction o’er the land Come pouring as a flood, The sun, that sees our falling day, Shall mark our sabres’ deadly sway, And set that night in blood. For gold let Gallia’s legions fight, Or plunder’s bloody gain; Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, To guard our king, to fence our law, Nor shall their edge be vain. If ever breath of British gale Shall fan the tricolor, Or footstep of invader rude, With rapine foul, and red with blood, Pollute our happy shore-- Then farewell home! and farewell friends! Adieu each tender tie! Resolved, we mingle in the tide, Where charging squadrons furious ride, To conquer or to die. To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; High sounds our bugle call; Combined by honour’s sacred tie, Our word is _Laws and Liberty_! March forward, one and all! _Sir Walter Scott._ LEYDEN CXLI ODE ON VISITING FLODDEN