Scotland’s Laurels—a Song.

Air— “ Soldier’s Funeral.

All hail, Caledonia! thou nurse of my childhood !1
Still brave be thy sons as their fathers of yore ;2
When the beacon is blazing o’er crag, glen, and wildwood,3
Then firm may they stand as the rocks on thy shore.4
When Scotia’s genius loudly shall call us,5
And lead us in arms to the dread battle-field,6
O heave high the claymore, descendants of Wallace !7
And die ere an inch to the foeman you yield.8
For these glens, and these shaws, for these crags, and
these mountains,
Our forefathers pour’d out their blood on the heath,10
And red with their life-drops ran these clear crystal foun-
Our freedom they sought in the grapple of death.12
The pibroch has oft in these vallies resounded,13
These rocks echoed oft to the loud clanging shield,14
And into these deer dens were carried the wounded,15
Your fathers all mangled and red from the field.16
Here Burns at his plough sang with kindling devotion,17
And here, too, the Bruce and the brave Wallace bled18
O rolls not your blood like the foam of the ocean,19
To hear but the names of your hallowed dead ?20
Shall we e’er shiver those pillars of glory ?21
In memory’s fair book shall we e’er blot their names ?22
Ah no ! they shall live both in song and in story,23
Till angels shall see terra firma in flames.24
Then braid for their statues the proud laurel head-wreath,25
They fought, and he sang that you should not be slaves ;26
Oh swear by the struggle on Bannockburn’s red heath,27
No tyrant shall trample their green holy graves.28
When Scotia’s genius loudly shall call us,29
And lead us in arms to the dread battle-field,30
We’ll heave strong the sword, we’re descendants of Wal-
We’ll die ere an inch to the tyrant we yield !32