O there it blossoms-there it blows,-
The thistle's grown aboon the rose.
Bright like a stedfast star it smiles
Aboon the battle's burning files;
The mirkest cloud, the darkest night,
Shall ne'er make dim that beauteous light;
And the best blood that warms my vein
Shall flow ere it shall catch a stain.
Far has it shone on fields of fame,
From matchless Bruce till dauntless Graeme,
From swarthy Spain to Siber's snows ;-
The thistle's grown aboon the rose.
What conquer'd ay, what nobly spared,
What firm endured, and greatly dared?
What redden'd Egypt's burning sand?
What vanquish'd on Corunna's strand?
What pipe on green Maida blew shrill?
What dyed in blood Barossa hill?
Bade France's dearest life-blood rue
Dark Soignies and dread Waterloo ?
That spirit which no terror knows ;—
The thistle's grown aboon the rose.
I vow-and let men mete the grass
For his red grave who dares say less-
Men kinder at the festive board,
Men braver with the spear and sword,
Men higher famed for truth-more strong
In virtue, sovereign sense, and song,
Or maids more fair, or wives more true,
Than Scotland's, ne'er trode down the dew.
Round flies the song-the flagon flows,--
The thistle's grown aboon the rose.
Red glows the forge in Striguil's bounds,
The hammers din, and anvil sounds,
And armourers with iron toil
Barb many a steed for battle's broil :
Foul fall the hand that bends the steel
Around the courser's thundering heel,
That e'er shall dint a sable wound
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground!
From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn,
Was heard afar the bugle-horn;
And forth in banded pomp and pride
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride.
They swore their banners broad should gleam
In crimson light on Rymney's stream;
They vowed Caerphilly's sod should feel
The Norman charger's spurning heel.
And sooth they swore-the sun arose,
And Rymney's wave with crimson glows:
For Clare's red banner floating wide
Rolled down the stream to Severn's tide.
And sooth they vowed-the trampled green
Showed where hot Neville's charge had been;
In every sable hoof-tramp stood
A Norman horseman's curdling blood.
Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil
That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil :
Their orphans long the art may rue
For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe.
No more the tramp of armed steed
Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead;
Nor trace be there in early spring,
Save of the fairies' emerald ring.
Tho' richer swains thy love pursue,
In Sunday gear and bonnets new ;
And every fair before thee lay
Their silken gifts with colours gay:
They love thee not, alas! so well
As one who sighs and dare not tell ;
Who haunts thy dwelling, night and noon,
In tatter'd hose, and clouted shoon.
I grieve not for my wayward lot,
My empty folds, my roofless cot;
Nor hateful pity, proudly shown,
Nor alter'd looks nor friendship flown;
Nor yet my dog with lanken sides,
Who by his master still abides;
But how will Nan prefer my boon,
In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon!
THE GREEN BOWERS OF BARGENY.
I left ye, Jeanie, blooming fair
'Mang the bourocks of Bargeny ;
I've found ye on the banks of Ayr,
And sair ye're alter'd, Jeanie:
I left ye 'mang the woods sae green,
In rustic weed befitting;
I've found ye buskit like a queen,
In painted chambers sitting.
That plays 'mang Haydart heather; I've found ye now a sober dame,
A wife, and eke a mither. Ye're fairer, statelier, I can see ;
Ye're wiser, nae doubt, Jeanie ;—
But Oh! I'd rather met wi' thee
'Mang the green bowers of Bargeny.
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