The Blue Poetry Book. Lang Andrew

      Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

      The sun has left the lea,

      The orange flower perfumes the bower,

      The breeze is on the sea.

      The lark, his lay who trill’d all day,

      Sits hush’d his partner nigh;

      Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour

      But where is County Guy?

      The village maid steals through the shade,

      Her shepherd’s suit to hear;

      To beauty shy, by lattice high,

      Sings high-born Cavalier.

      The star of Love, all stars above,

      Now reigns o’er earth and sky;

      And high and low the influence know —

      But where is County Guy?

      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!

      The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

      And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

      And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

      When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

      Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,

      That host with their banners at sunset were seen;

      Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

      That host on the morrow lay wither’d and strown.

      For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

      And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d;

      And the eyes of the sleepers wax’d deadly and chill,

      And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

      And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

      But through it there roll’d not the breath of his pride;

      And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

      And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

      And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

      With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:

      And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

      The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

      And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

      And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

      And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

      Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

      While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,

      My true love has mounted his steed, and away

      Over hill, over valley, o’er dale, and o’er down, —

      Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!

      He has doff’d the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,

      He has placed the steel cap o’er his long-flowing hair,

      From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down, —

      Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!

      For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws;

      Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause;

      His watchword is honour, his pay is renown, —

      God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!

      They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all

      The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;

      But tell these bold traitors of London’s proud town,

      That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.

      There’s Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;

      There’s Erin’s high Ormond, and Scotland’s Montrose!

      Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown

      With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown?

      Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!

      Be his banner unconquer’d, resistless his spear,

      Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,

      In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown.

      Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,

      And many goodly states

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