With head erect, and gleaming eye,
She too observed the flash on high,
And caught the distant thunder roar,
And sniffed the storm across her shore;
From Land's End, north to John-o'-Groat's,
The din of war, like ether floats;
Till peers, along with peasants stand,
A wall of fire around their land;
A warning to the pirates who

Deem Britain holds a merchant crew ;
And bold the foe would tempt that ring,
Or in its face the gauntlet fling:
For War, in anger, armed her mind,
Till Peace in terror crouched behind.

II.

Ay! Scotland proudly stands at bay,
To take her share in Britain's fray,
And keep her rugged heath-clad home,
As free as waves that round her foam;
Her motto "In Defence" shall be;
But should a despot cross the sea,
And plant one foot upon her shore,
He'll find the Celtic blood of yore
On fire on every hill and plain,
Her ancient freedom to maintain;
Of all the fatal crimson games,
Which horrid War on earth proclaims,
Defence, alone! thy holy cause
Is one of God's Almighty laws,
Who thrusts the weapon in thy hand,
And sacred makes thy dripping brand,
It rouses up the wriggling worm
If trod upon, to guard from harm,
A lion makes the timid sheep,
Which butts, its little lamb to keep,
Defies the hawk, the brooding hen-
Examples to defensive men!

The savage dares the conquering foe,
And to the last his club will throw !-

Yes! stern Defence !-grim Scotia's shield

The very wind howls-"Never yield,"

But sacred, guard the only cause
Which lifts the weapon with applause.-
Great Freedom's twin, which never dies,
But, like Elijah, cleaves the skies!
Their spirit floats upon the seas,
And rides triumphant on the breeze,
Or sits enshrined upon the heath,
Where sleep the rugged rocks beneath,
Or sails on mist, o'er mount and hill,
And dances down each laughing rill,
Or jeering points to tarn and scaur,
Where shattered lie the wheels of War,
And scowling, rests on Stirling's plain,
Where rusts a despot's broken chain,1
Then writes immortal Bruce's name
With blood, and patriot Wallace' fame!

And shall a hireling's weapon stain
The home where Freedom loves to reign?
Or Serfdom keep her sacred glen?
No! though they land a million men!
She kept her mountain home, before,
When foemen dwelt from shore to shore;
United now with kindred foes,
We dare a despot world to blows.
Yes! though we lent our ships to come,
They ne'er would reach that Highland home;
For if their keels once touched the land,
They'd find them moored with ropes of sand;
Α spear would start from every thorn,
And find, too late, their hope forlorn.
Beneath the heath they'd find a grave,
Or, wounded, by the lone sea wave,
With wistful eye-in terror gaze,
To see their transports wildly blaze!
And, dying, curse the fatal hour

That made them dare our island power!
And if our heaving arm of might

In anger rose to keep us right,

1 From the disparity in numbers between the two armies at Bannockburn, history states that Edward was so confident of success, that he brought chains for the special preservation of his expected prisoners.

And smashed the bridge that brought them o'er,

Return they? never, never more!

Without retreat, they could not hence

Truth's consecrated residence,

The home of Liberty and Peace,—
Until the chainless breakers cease.

IV.

No! Britain need not be afraid
Of any tyrant slaves have made ;
Her very air breathes freedom still,
It floats aloft on every hill,

It will not, nay, it cannot wane,
Its roots are deep in every plain ;
"Tis not alone her hardy race,
But 'tis her native "pride of place,"
Which keeps herself for ever great,
A guiding star to every state.
Chain up her freedom? chain her air!
Tie up her waves with ladies' hair!
Erase her rocks! tear down her hills!
For each with Freedom's fire instills;
What! though the present race were gone?
Her Phoenix blood would rise anon;
Thermopyles in every glen,

Till Freedom's standard flew again.

With pride I take the Scotsman's view,
And write in praise of her Review.
But, though a Scot pen Scotland's praise,
Old England well can spare his lays,
And wisely think, when all is done,
That both are praised in praising one.
For though a Scotsman, I maintain
The Union bond was mutual gain,
For each hath helped to build that dome
Which makes the two, one modern Rome;
And all we want, is Ireland true

As Scotland,-proved by her Review,-
And not, like Peter, keep our keys,

A despot or a Pope to please.

I

VI.

Loved Scotia! what a fame is thine,
From savage rudeness thus to shine,
And help to raise through broken spears,
The standard of a thousand years!
To share the Empire of the world,
With Freedom's banner still unfurled.
Through blood, and fire, and famished land-
You cleaved your way with Freedom's brand;
That brand, which never yet did fail,
To make the deepest tyrant quail:
Till now that banner proudly waves,
O'er every land which ocean laves;
Since Freedom made proud Edward turn,
Thy star arose from Bannockburn!
Yes! hallowed stream, to Freedom dear,
Where sank, for ever, Scotland's fear,
And gave, to every freeborn mind,
A noble lesson to mankind,

To teach the world through endless Time,
That Freedom lives in every clime.
Green be thy braes !-for ever green!
But on them never foe be seen-
Or should he dare to tread thy slopes,
Led northward by a despot's hopes,
May Bruce's spirit then arise-
A world's vengeance in its eyes,
And gather round his patriot pole,1-
Not only men, but Freedom's Soul!
That, backward, not one hireling's wail
Shall ever get to tell the tale!

VII.

For upwards of a thousand years

1

Thy page o'erflowed with hopes and fears;

Nor culminated till thy name,

Had won a world-wide Empress-fame.

How changed, since, when Galgacus rushed,

With loud barbarian yell,

And Roman legion, nearly crushed,

By savage force, pell-mell,

A pole has recently been erected on the field of Bannockburn, in honour of Bruce, and to mark the spot of such a noble vindication of the power of Liberty, the spirit of God. H

Rome's conquerors stood then abashed,
When in amid their tents there dashed,
A foe, as if from Hell!

Whose bloody blades still fearless smashed,
And to the last yet fiercer clashed,
Before they dying fell:

Whose clotted locks, and dripping brand,
And tattooed face, and bloody hand,
Struck with torpedo spell;
Ay! yon barbaric, savage fray,
Soon told the game they had to play-
The tribes they had to quell,

For Tacitus e'en gives them praise,
Such praise, as fierce unconquered frays,
A Roman pen would tell;

When rude barbarians, forced to plan,
A columned front, with Tungrian,
And veteran trained Batavian,

With mail, and helmet shell;

For Rome's proud Legions never thought,
That Scotia, Freedom's battle fought,
So wildly and so well.

Bellona, on the very verge

Of Conquest, held her bloody scourge,
Doubtful the savage foe to wound,
Or Rome hurl headlong to the ground-
Yes! here, in truth, did Brutus 1 see
It was no shade-of Liberty!

VIII.

Where is that Roman Empire now?
The laurel band, that wreathed her brow?
Alas! tis gone, her fame o'erthrown,

For all are with her Freedom flown;
Her Empire fell through pampered peers,
Who crushed her native volunteers,

And vainly trusted foreign aid—

A slaved police, and hireling blade;
Which cast o'er Freedom's eye the slough,
Like gend'arme chief beguiled Kinloch,2

1 Let us not say of Liberty what Brutus said of Virtue-"I worshipped thee, and found thee but a shade."

2 The present chief of the Police Force of Scotland was a keen advocate against Reform and the Corn-Laws, on the ground that these would prove injurious to the interests of the Aristocracy; which has proved to be perfectly