  TO THE SCOTTISH REGIMENTS.LAND of sorrow—war and weeping, Granite rock and falling snow, Where Romance is never sleeping, Where the fires of freedom glow. Where the spark has never died, be the cause however lost, Be the breath however humble that would fan it to a flame; From the shieling, from the castle, did they ever count the cost Ere they went to meet a rebel's death and perished for a name? While England learnt the Roman tongue and paid her tax to Gaul, The Caledonian tribute clashed along the Roman wall— From East to West the sentinels looked out towards the North— "Amboglanna has sent for aid, For the heather is bright with targe and blade Away to the silvery Forth." When the Scottish host looked down and scorned to charge the foe That filed around the fatal hill and crossed the stream below, When the flowers of the forest fell and withered in the fight— "Shoulder to shoulder around the King, Hear the Claymore whistle and sing Our funeral song to-night." The English knew it at Prestonpans—the wall against their backs, When down the slope the clansmen came with the long Lochaber axe, The dew on the grass and the morning mist and a roar of charging men,— Pipers playing on either flank— "Steady the volleys, the leading rank!" The fires were blazing then. And the spark has gone to Flanders, as the Prussian butchers know, For they learnt at Loos and Hulluch from the Caledonian sword The prayer of Anglo-Saxon priests a thousand years ago— "From the fury of the Northern men, deliver us, O Lord." |
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