DONALD CAIRD. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Donald Caird can lilt and sing, Donald Caird can wire a maukin, To shoot a moor-fowl in the drift: He can wauk when they are sleepers ;— Donald Caird can drink a gill Kens how Donald bends a bicker: When he's fou, he's stout and saucy, Keeps the cantle o' the causey; Highland chief and Lowland laird Maun gie room to Donald Caird. Steek the aumrie, lock the kist, Else some gear may weel be mist; Donald Caird finds orra things, Where Allan Gregor fand the tings: Dunts of kebbuck, taits of woo, Whiles a hen, and whiles a sow; Webs or duds frae hedge or yardWare the wuddie, Donald Caird! On Donald Caird the doom was stern, But Donald Caird, wi' mickle study, YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. Ye mariners of England! Who guard our native seas; Whose flag has brav'd, a thousand years, To match another foe! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow; As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow: While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, She quells the floods below- When the stormy tempests blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceas'd to blow. THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; In a bold determin'd hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on. Like Leviathans, afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime. As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; But the might of England flush'd And her van the fleeter rush'd VOL. IV. A A |