THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE.* Br W. EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN. YOUND the fife, and cry the slogan,— SOU Let the pribroch shake the air Hear once more the battle-song Than we bring with us to-day,— Good King Robert's heart-the priceless- Lo! we bring with us the hero,— Lo! we bring the conquering Græme, From the altar of his fame; Whence his spirit took its flight, John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, was killed as the battle of Killiecrankie in Scotland. Midst the crashing charge of squadrons, And the thunder of the fight! Strike, I say, the notes of triumph, As we march o'er moor and lea! Is there any here will venture To bewail our dead Dundee? Let the widows of the traitors Weep until their eyes are dim! Wail ye may full well for Scotland,Let none dare to mourn for him! See! above his glorious body Lies the royal banner's fold; See O never more, my comrades, Shall we see that falcon eye Redden with its inward lightning, As the hour of fight drew nigh! Never shall we hear the voice that Clearer than the trumpet's call, Bade us strike for King and Country, Bade us win the field, or fall! On the heights of Killiecrankie Yester-morn our army lay: Slowly rose the mist in columns From the river's broken way; Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent, And the Pass was wrapt in gloom, When the clansmen rose together From their lair amidst the broom. Then we belted on our tartans, Then our leader rode before us On his war-horse black as night, — Well the Cameronian rebels Know that charger in the fight!And a cry of exultation From the bearded warriors rose; For we loved the house of Claver'se, And we thought of good Montrose. But he raised his hand for silence— "Soldiers! I have sworn a vow: Ere the evening star shall glisten On Schehallion's lofty brow, Either we shall rest in triumph, Or another of the Græmes Shall have died in battle-harness For his Country and King James! Think upon the Royal Martyr, — Think of what his race endure, — Think of him whom butchers murdered On the field of Magus Muir: :By his sacred blood I charge ye, By the ruined hearth and shrine, By the blighted hopes of Scotland, strike this day as if the anvil Lay beneath your blows the while, Be they covenanting traitors, Or the brood of false Argyle! Strike! and drive the trembling rebels Backwards o'er the stormy Forth; Let them tell their pale Convention How they fared within the North. Let them tell that Highland honor Is not to be bought nor sold, That we scorn their prince's anger As we loathe his foreign gold. Strike! and when the fight is over, If ye look in vain for me, Where the dead are lying thickest, Search for him that was Dundee !" Loudly then the hills re-echoed In the bosoms of us all. For the lands of wide Breadalbane, And they harder drew their breath; Down we crouched amid the bracken, From the dark defile emerging, Till they gained the plain beneath; Flashed the broadsword of Lochiel! Horse and man went down like drift-wood In the Garry's deepest pool. On the field of Killiecrankie, When that stubborn fight was done! And the evening star was shining On Schehallion's distant head, When we wiped our bloody broadswords, And returned to count the dead. There we found him gashed and gory, Stretched upon the cumbered plain, |