(Supposed to be narrated by James Power, or Polwarth, her Scottish banner-painter.)

The Maiden called for her great destrier,
But he lashed like a fiend when the Maid drew near:
“Lead him forth to the Cross!” she cried, and he stood
Like a steed of bronze by the Holy Rood!

Then I saw the Maiden mount and ride,
With a good steel sperthe that swung by her side,
And girt with the sword of the Heavenly Bride,
That is sained with crosses five for a sign,
The mystical sword of St. Catherine.
And the lily banner was blowing wide,
With the flowers of France on the field of fame
And, blent with the blossoms, the Holy Name!
And the Maiden’s blazon was shown on a shield,
Argent, a dove, on an azure field;
That banner was wrought by this hand, ye see,
For the love of the Maid and chivalry.

Her banner was borne by a page of grace,
With hair of gold, and a lady’s face;
And behind it the ranks of her men were dressed—
Never a man but was clean confessed,
Jackman and archer, lord and knight,
Their souls were clean and their hearts were light:
There was never an oath, there was never a laugh,
And La Hire swore soft by his leading staff!
Had we died in that hour we had won the skies,
And the Maiden had marched us through Paradise!

A moment she turned to the people there,
Who had come to gaze on the Maiden fair;
A moment she glanced at the ring she wore,
She murmured the Holy Name it bore,
Then, “For France and the King, good people pray!”
She spoke, and she cried to us, “On and away!”
And the shouts broke forth, and the flowers rained down,
And the Maiden led us to Orleans town.

Lone Places of the Deer.

Lone places of the deer,
Corrie, and Loch, and Ben,
Fount that wells in the cave,
Voice of the burn and the wave,
Softly you sing and clear
Of Charlie and his men!

Here has he lurked, and here
The heather has been his bed,
The wastes of the islands knew
And the Highland hearts were true
To the bonny, the brave, the dear,
The royal, the hunted head.

An Old Song.

1750.

Oh, it’s hame, hame, hame,
And it’s hame I wadna be,
Till the Lord calls King James
To his ain countrie,
Bids the wind blaw frae France,
Till the Firth keps the faem,
And Loch Garry and Lochiel
Bring Prince Charlie hame.

May the lads Prince Charlie led
That were hard on Willie’s track,
When frae Laffen field he fled,
Wi’ the claymore at his back,
May they stand on Scottish soil
When the White Rose bears the gree,
And the Lord calls the King
To his ain countrie!

Bid the seas arise and stand
Like walls on ilka side,
Till our Highland lad pass through
With Jehovah for his guide.
Dry up the River Forth,
As Thou didst the Red Sea,
When Israel cam hame
To his ain countrie. [11]

Jacobite “Auld Lang Syne.”

Lochiel’s Regiment, 1747.

Though now we take King Lewie’s fee
And drink King Lewie’s wine,
We’ll bring the King frae ower the sea,
As in auld lang syne.

For, he that did proud Pharaoh crush,
And save auld Jacob’s line,
Will speak to Charlie in the Bush,
Like Moses, lang syne.

For oft we’ve garred the red coats run,
Frae Garry to the Rhine,
Frae BaugÉ brig to Falkirk moor,
No that lang syne.

The Duke may with the Devil drink,
And wi’ the deil may dine,
But Charlie’s dine in Holyrood,
As in auld lang syne.

For he who did proud Pharaoh crush,
To save auld Jacob’s line,
Shall speak to Charlie in the Bush,
Like Moses, lang syne.

The Prince’s Birthday.

Rome, 31st December, 1721.

(A new-born star shone, which is figured on an early Medal of Prince Charles.)

A wonderful star shone forth
From the frozen skies of the North
Upon Rome, for an Old Year’s night:
And a flower on the dear white Rose
Broke, in the season of snows,
To bloom for a day’s delight.

Lost is the star in the night,
And the Rose of a day’s delight
Fled “where the roses go”:
But the fragrance and light from afar,
Born of the Rose and the Star,
Breathe o’er the years and the snow.

The Tenth of June, 1715.

(Being a Song writ for a lady born on June 10th, the birthday of his Most Sacred Majesty King James III. and VIII.)

Day of the King and the flower!
And the girl of my heart’s delight,
The blackbird sings in the bower,
And the nightingale sings in the night
A song to the roses white.

Day of the flower and the King!
When shall the sails of white
Shine on the seas and bring
In the day, in the dawn, in the night,
The King to his land and his right?

Day of my love and my may,
After the long years’ flight,
Born on the King’s birthday,
Born for my heart’s delight,
With the dawn of the roses white!

Black as the blackbird’s wing
Is her hair, and her brow as white
As the white rose blossoming,
And her eyes as the falcon’s bright
And her heart is leal to the right.

When shall the joy bells ring?
When shall the hours unite
The right with the might of my King,
And my heart with my heart’s delight;
In the dawn, in the day, in the night?

White Rose Day.

June 10, 1688.

’Twas a day of faith and flowers,
Of honour that could not die,
Of Hope that counted the hours,
Of sorrowing Loyalty:
And the Blackbird sang in the closes,
The Blackbird piped in the spring,
For the day of the dawn of the Roses,
The dawn of the day of the King!

White roses over the heather,
And down by the Lowland lea,
And far in the faint blue weather,
A white sail guessed on the sea!
But the deep night gathers and closes,
Shall ever a morning bring
The lord of the leal white roses,
The face of the rightful King?

Red and White Roses.

Red roses under the sun
For the King who is lord of land;
But he dies when his day is done,
For his memory careth none
When the glass runs empty of sand.

White roses under the moon
For the King without lands to give;
But he reigns with the reign of June,
With the rose and the Blackbird’s tune,
And he lives while Faith shall live.

Red roses for beef and beer;
Red roses for wine and gold;
But they drank of the water clear,
In exile and sorry cheer,
To the kings of our sires of old.

Red roses for wealth and might;
White roses for hopes that flee;
And the dreams of the day and the night,
For the Lord of our heart’s delight—
For the King that is o’er the sea.

The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond.

1746.

There’s an ending o’ the dance, and fair Morag’s safe in France,
And the Clans they hae paid the lawing,
And the wuddy has her ain, and we twa are left alane,
Free o’ Carlisle gaol in the dawing.

So ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the laigh road,
An’ I’ll be in Scotland before ye:
But me and my true love will never meet again,
By the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.

For my love’s heart brake in twa, when she kenned the Cause’s fa’,
And she sleeps where there’s never nane shall waken,
Where the glen lies a’ in wrack, wi’ the houses toom and black,
And her father’s ha’s forsaken.

While there’s heather on the hill shall my vengeance ne’er be still,
While a bush hides the glint o’ a gun, lad;
Wi’ the men o’ Sergeant MÔr shall I work to pay the score,
Till I wither on the wuddy in the sun, lad!

So ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the laigh road,
An’ I’ll be in Scotland before ye:
But me and my true love will never meet again,
By the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.

Kenmure.

1715.

“The heather’s in a blaze, Willie,
The White Rose decks the tree,
The Fiery Cross is on the braes,
And the King is on the sea!

“Remember great Montrose, Willie,
Remember fair Dundee,
And strike one stroke at the foreign foes
Of the King that’s on the sea.

“There’s Gordons in the North, Willie,
Are rising frank and free,
Shall a Kenmure Gordon not go forth
For the King that’s on the sea?

“A trusty sword to draw, Willie,
A comely weird to dree,
For the Royal Rose that’s like the snaw,
And the King that’s on the sea!”

He cast ae look across his lands,
Looked over loch and lea,
He took his fortune in his hands,
For the King was on the sea.

Kenmures have fought in Galloway
For Kirk and Presbyt’rie,
This Kenmure faced his dying day,
For King James across the sea.

It little skills what faith men vaunt,
If loyal men they be
To Christ’s ain Kirk and Covenant,
Or the King that’s o’er the sea.

Culloden.

Dark, dark was the day when we looked on Culloden
And chill was the mist drop that clung to the tree,
The oats of the harvest hung heavy and sodden,
No light on the land and no wind on the sea.

There was wind, there was rain, there was fire on their faces,
When the clans broke the bayonets and died on the guns,
And ’tis Honour that watches the desolate places
Where they sleep through the change of the snows and the suns.

Unfed and unmarshalled, outworn and outnumbered,
All hopeless and fearless, as fiercely they fought,
As when Falkirk with heaps of the fallen was cumbered,
As when Gledsmuir was red with the havoc they wrought.

Ah, woe worth you, Sleat, and the faith that you vowed,
Ah, woe worth you, Lovat, Traquair, and Mackay;
And woe on the false fairy flag of Macleod,
And the fat squires who drank, but who dared not to die!

Where the graves of Clan Chattan are clustered together,
Where Macgillavray died by the Well of the Dead,
We stooped to the moorland and plucked the pale heather
That blooms where the hope of the Stuart was sped.

And a whisper awoke on the wilderness, sighing,
Like the voice of the heroes who battled in vain,
“Not for Tearlach alone the red claymore was plying,
But to bring back the old life that comes not again.”

The Last of the Leal.

December 31, 1787.

Here’s a health to every man
Bore the brunt of wind and weather;
Winnowed sore by Fortune’s fan,
Faded faith of chief and clan:
Nairne and Caryl stand together;
Here’s a health to every man
Bore the brunt of wind and weather!

Oh, round Charlie many ran,
When his foot was on the heather,
When his sword shone in the van.
Now at ending of his span,
Gask and Caryl stand together!

Ne’er a hope from plot or plan,
Ne’er a hope from rose or heather;
Ay, the King’s a broken man;
Few will bless, and most will ban.
Nairne and Caryl stand together!

Help is none from Crown or clan,
France is false, a fluttered feather;
But Kings are not made by man,
Till God end what God began,
Nairne and Caryl stand together,
Gask and Caryl stand together;
Here’s a health to every man
Bore the brunt of wind and weather!

Jeanne d’Arc.

The honour of a loyal boy,
The courage of a paladin,
With maiden’s mirth, the soul of joy,
These dwelt her happy breast within.
From shame, from doubt, from fear, from sin,
As God’s own angels was she free;
Old worlds shall end, and new begin
To be

Ere any come like her who fought
For France, for freedom, for the King;
Who counsel of redemption brought
Whence even the armed Archangel’s wing
Might weary sore in voyaging;
Who heard her Voices cry “Be free!”
Such Maid no later human spring
Shall see!

Saints Michael, Catherine, Margaret,
Who sowed the seed that Thou must reap,
If eyes of angels may be wet,
And if the Saints have leave to weep,
In Paradise one pain they keep,
Maiden! one mortal memory,
One sorrow that can never sleep,
For Thee!