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"My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower; For love to die, for fame to fight, Becomes the valiant Troubadour."
Alas! upon the bloody field
He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, But still reclining on his shield,
Expiring sung the exulting stave:"My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower; For love and fame to fall in fight Becomes the valiant Troubadour."
FROM THE FRENCH.'
Ir chanced that Cupid on a season,
What does he then?-Upon my life, 'Twas bad example for a deity — He takes me Reason for a wife,
And Folly for his hours of gaiety.
Though thus he dealt in petty treason,
He loved them both in equal measure; Fidelity was born of Reason,
And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure.
[This trifle also is from the French Collection, found at Waterloo.. See Paul's Letters.]
FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE
PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND.
O, DREAD was the time, and more dreadful the omen, When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd in vain, And beholding broad Europe bow'd down by her foe
PITT closed in his anguish the map of her reign! Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave
To take for his country the safety of shame;
Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the furrow,
The mists of the winter may mingle with rain, He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow, And sigh while he fears he has sow'd it in vain; may die ere his children shall reap in their glad
But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim;
And their jubilee-shout shall be soften'd with sadness, While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name.
Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,
Nor forget His grey head, who, all dark in affliction,
By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim ! With our tribute to PITT join the praise of his Master, Though a tear stain the goblet that flows to his
Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad mea
The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid, To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright trea
The wisdom that plann'd, and the zeal that obey'd! Fill WELLINGTON's cup till it beam like his glory,
Forget not our own brave DALHOUSIE and GRÆME ; A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their
And hallow the goblet which flows to their fame.
ON THE LIFTING OF
THE BANNER OF THE HOUSE OF BUCCLEUCH, AT A GREAT FOOT-BALL MATCH ON CARTERHAUGH.1
FROM the brown crest of Newark its summons extending,
Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her,
When the Southern invader spread waste and disorder, At the glance of her crescents he paused and withdrew,
For around them were marshall'd the pride of the Border,
The Flowers of the Forest, the Bands of BUCCLEUCH. Then up with the Banner, &c.
A Stripling's weak hand to our revel has borne her, No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no spearmen surround;
'[This song appears with music in Mr. G. Thomson's Collection -1826. The foot-ball match on which it was written took place on December 5, 1815, and was also celebrated by the Ettrick Shepherd.]
"[The bearer of the standard was the Author's eldest son.]
But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should scorn her, A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground. Then up with the Banner, &c.
We forget each contention of civil dissension,
And hail, like our brethren, HOME, DOUGLAS, and CAR: And ELLIOT and PRINGLE in pastime shall mingle, As welcome in peace as their fathers in war. Then up with the Banner, &c.
Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the weather,
And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall, There are worse things in life than a tumble on heather, And life is itself but a game at foot-ball. Then up with the Banner, &c.
And when it is over, we'll drink a blithe measure
To each Laird and each Lady that witness'd our fun, And to every blithe heart that took part in our plea
To the lads that have lost and the lads that have won. Then up with the Banner, &c.
May the Forest still flourish, both Borough and Landward,
From the hall of the Peer to the Herd's ingle-nook; And huzza! my brave hearts, for BUCCLEUCH and his Standard,
For the King and the Country, the Clan and the Duke!
Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her, She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more ; In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her,
With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.