Some Poems

THE DANCE OF DEATH. [1815.]

INight and morning were at meeting  Over Waterloo;Cocks had sung their earliest greeting;  Faint and low they crew,For no paly beam yet shoneOn the heights of Mount Saint John;Tempest-clouds prolonged the swayOf timeless darkness over day;Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and showerMarked it a predestined hour.Broad and frequent through the nightFlashed the sheets of levin-light:Muskets, glancing lightnings back,Showed the dreary bivouac  Where the soldier lay,Chill and stiff, and drenched with rain,Wishing dawn of morn again,  Though death should come with day.II’Tis at such a tide and hourWizard, witch, and fiend have power,And ghastly forms through mist and shower  Gleam on the gifted ken;And then the affrighted prophet’s earDrinks whispers strange of fate and fearPresaging death and ruin near  Among the sons of men; -Apart from Albyn’s war-array,’Twas then grey Allan sleepless lay;Grey Allan, who, for many a day,  Had followed stout and stern,Where, through battle’s rout and reel,Storm of shot and edge of steel,Led the grandson of Lochiel,  Valiant Fassiefern.Through steel and shot he leads no more,Low laid ’mid friends’ and foemen’s gore -But long his native lake’s wild shore,And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower,  And Morven long shall tell,And proud Bennevis hear with aweHow, upon bloody Quatre-Bras,Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra  Of conquest as he fell.IIILone on the outskirts of the host,The weary sentinel held post,And heard, through darkness far aloof,The frequent clang of courser’s hoof,Where held the cloaked patrol their course,And spurred ’gainst storm the swerving horse;But there are sounds in Allan’s ear,Patrol nor sentinel may hear,And sights before his eye aghastInvisible to them have passed,  When down the destined plain,’Twixt Britain and the bands of France,Wild as marsh-borne meteor’s glance,Strange phantoms wheeled a revel dance,  And doomed the future slain. -Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard,When Scotland’s James his march prepared  For Flodden’s fatal plain;Such, when he drew his ruthless sword,As Choosers of the Slain, adored  The yet unchristened Dane.An indistinct and phantom band,They wheeled their ring-dance hand in hand,  With gestures wild and dread;The Seer, who watched them ride the storm,Saw through their faint and shadowy form  The lightning’s flash more red;And still their ghastly roundelayWas of the coming battle-fray,  And of the destined dead.IV. SONGWheel the wild danceWhile lightnings glance,  And thunders rattle loud,And call the braveTo bloody grave,  To sleep without a shroud.Our airy feet,So light and fleet,  They do not bend the ryeThat sinks its head when whirlwinds rave,And swells again in eddying wave,  As each wild gust blows by;But still the corn,At dawn of morn,  Our fatal steps that bore,At eve lies waste,A trampled paste  Of blackening mud and gore.Wheel the wild danceWhile lightnings glance,  And thunders rattle loud,And call the braveTo bloody grave,  To sleep without a shroud.VWheel the wild dance!Brave sons of France,  For you our ring makes room;Make space full wideFor martial pride,  For banner, spear, and plume.Approach, draw near,Proud cuirassier!  Room for the men of steel!Through crest and plateThe broadsword’s weight  Both head and heart shall feel.VIWheel the wild danceWhile lightnings glance,  And thunders rattle loud,And call the braveTo bloody grave,  To sleep without a shroud.Sons of the spear!You feel us near  In many a ghastly dream;With fancy’s eyeOur forms you spy,  And hear our fatal scream.With clearer sightEre falls the night,  Just when to weal or woeYour disembodied souls take flightOn trembling wing – each startled sprite  Our choir of death shall know.VIIWheel the wild danceWhile lightnings glance,  And thunders rattle loud,And call the braveTo bloody grave,  To sleep without a shroud.Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers,Redder rain shall soon be ours -  See the east grows wan -Yield we place to sterner game,Ere deadlier bolts and direr flameShall the welkin’s thunders shame,Elemental rage is tame  To the wrath of man.VIIIAt morn, grey Allan’s mates with aweHeard of the visioned sights he saw,  The legend heard him say;But the Seer’s gifted eye was dim,Deafened his ear, and stark his limb,  Ere closed that bloody day.He sleeps far from his Highland heath,But often of the Dance of Death  His comrades tell the taleOn picquet-post, when ebbs the night,And waning watch-fires glow less bright,  And dawn is glimmering pale.

ROMANCE OF DUNOIS. FROM THE FRENCH. [1815.]

[The original of this little Romance makes part of a manuscript collection of French Songs, probably compiled by some young officer, which was found on the field of Waterloo, so much stained with clay and with blood as sufficiently to indicate what had been the fate of its late owner. The song is popular in France, and is rather a good specimen of the style of composition to which it belongs. The translation is strictly literal.]

It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine,But first he made his orisons before Saint Mary’s shrine:“And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven,” was still the Soldier’s prayer;That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the fairest fair.”His oath of honour on the shrine he graved it with his sword,And followed to the Holy Land the banner of his Lord;Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war-cry filled the air,“Be honoured aye the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair.”They owed the conquest to his arm, and then his Liege-Lord said,“The heart that has for honour beat by bliss must be repaid. -My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair,For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest of the fair.”And then they bound the holy knot before Saint Mary’s shrine,That makes a paradise on earth, if hearts and hands combine;And every lord and lady bright that were in chapel thereCried, “Honoured be the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair!”

THE TROUBADOUR. FROM THE SAME COLLECTION. [1815.]

Glowing with love, on fire for fame  A Troubadour that hated sorrowBeneath his lady’s window came,  And thus he sung his last good-morrow:“My arm it is my country’s right,  My heart is in my true-love’s bower;Gaily for love and fame to fight  Befits the gallant Troubadour.”And while he marched with helm on head  And harp in hand, the descant rung,As faithful to his favourite maid,  The minstrel-burden still he sung:“My arm it is my country’s right,  My heart is in my lady’s bower;Resolved for love and fame to fight  I come, a gallant Troubadour.”Even when the battle-roar was deep,  With dauntless heart he hewed his way,’Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,  And still was heard his warrior-lay:“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.”

PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU

[This is a very ancient pibroch belonging to Clan MacDonald. The words of the set, theme, or melody, to which the pipe variations are applied, run thus in Gaelic: -

Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil;Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil;Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil;Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi.The pipe-summons of Donald the Black,The pipe-summons of Donald the Black,The war-pipe and the pennon are on the gathering-placeat Inverlochy.]     Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,       Pibroch of Donuil,     Wake thy wild voice anew,       Summon Clan Conuil.     Come away, come away,       Hark to the summons!     Come in your war array,       Gentles and commons.     Come from deep glen, and       From mountain so rocky,     The war-pipe and pennon       Are at Inverlochy.     Come every hill-plaid, and       True heart that wears one,     Come every steel blade, and       Strong hand that bears one.     Leave untended the herd,       The flock without shelter;     Leave the corpse uninterr’d,       The bride at the altar;     Leave the deer, leave the steer,       Leave nets and barges:     Come with your fighting gear,       Broadswords and targes.     Come as the winds come, when       Forests are rended;     Come as the waves come, when       Navies are stranded:     Faster come, faster come,       Faster and faster,     Chief, vassal, page and groom,       Tenant and master.     Fast they come, fast they come;       See how they gather!     Wide waves the eagle plume,       Blended with heather.     Cast your plaids, draw your blades,       Forward each man set!     Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,       Knell for the onset!

1

  This eText comes from a book (Pike Country Ballads etc.) which contains a number of poems by John Hay.  These have been released separately by Project Gutenberg under the title “Pike Country Ballads and Other Poems” by John Hay.  They are not included here to avoid duplication.

2

  The literal translation of Fuentes d’Honoro.