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Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
Home The hills of the Highlands forever I love.
Country Farewell to the mountains high covered with
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
And his wild harp slung behind him."Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
Though all the world betrays thee,
The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
Thy songs were made for the pure and free, Country They shall never sound in slavery!"
The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls
The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells:
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.
Fife and Drum
The trumpet's loud clangor
Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger
And mortal alarms.
The double, double, double beat
Of the thundering drum,
Cries, "Hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat."
From "The Ode on St. Cecilia's Day."
The Cavalier's Song
A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed,
A sword of metal keene!
All else to noble heartes is drosse,
All else on earth is meane.
The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde,
The clangor of the trumpet lowde,
Be soundes from heaven that come;
May tole from heaven an angel bright,
Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
And don your helmes amaine:
Deathe's couriers, fame and honor, call
Us to the field againe.
No shrewish teares shall fill our eye
When the sword-hilt's in our hand
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe
For the fayrest of the land;
Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
Thus weepe and puling crye;
Our business is like men to fight,
And hero-like to die!
The Old Scottish Cavalier
Come listen to another song,
Should make your heart beat high, Bring crimson to your forehead,
And the luster to your eye;—
It is a song of olden time,
Of days long since gone by,
And of a baron stout and bold
As e'er wore sword on thigh!
Like a brave old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!
He kept his castle in the north,
Hard by the thundering Spey;
And a thousand vassals dwelt around,
All of his kindred they.
And not a man of all that clan
Had ever ceased to pray
For the Royal race they loved so well,
From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers
His father drew the righteous sword
And chiefs of ancient names,
And died at Killiecrankie Pass
He never owned the foreign rule,
But kept his clan in peace at home,
And pointed to his bonnet blue,
That bore the white cockade: