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"Nay, never speak; my sires, Lord King, received their land from yours,

And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine secures;

If I should fly, and thou, my King, be found among the dead,

How could I stand 'mong gentlemen, such scorn on my gray head?

"Castile's proud dames shall never point the finger of disdain,

And say there's one that ran away when our good lords were slain!

I leave Diego in your care, you'll fill his father's

place;

Strike, strike the spur, and never spare,-God's blessing on your Grace!"

So spake the brave Montanez, Butrago's lord was he;

And turned him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee;

He flung himself among them, as they came down the hill,

He died, God wot! but not before his sword had drunk its fill.

THE BROADSWORDS OF SCOTLAND.

JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

Now there's peace on the shore, now there's calm on the sea,

Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,

Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.

O the broadswords of old Scotland!

And O the old Scottish broadswords!

Old Sir Ralph Abercromby, the good and the brave,

Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with the slave,

Whose libation comes slow while we honor his

grave.

O the broadswords of old Scotland! etc.

Though he died not, like him, amid victory's roar, Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on the shore,

Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore.

O the broadswords of old Scotland! etc.

Yea, a place with the fallen the living shall claim; We'll intwine in one wreath every glorious name, The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Graham.

All the broadswords of old Scotland, etc.

Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of the Forth,

Count the stars in the clear, cloudless heaven of the north;

Then go blazon their numbers, their names, and their worth,

All the broadswords of old Scotland! etc.

The highest in splendor, the humblest in place,
Stand united in glory, as kindred in race,
For the private is by other in blood to his Grace.
O the broadswords of old Scotland! etc.

Then sacred to each and to all let it be,

Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,

Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.

O the broadswords of old Scotland! etc.

BALAKLAVA.

ALEXANDER B. MEEK.

O the charge of Balaklava!
O that rash and fatal charge!
Never was a fiercer, braver,
Than that charge at Balaklava,

On the battle's bloody marge!

All the day the Russian columns,
Fortress huge, and blazing banks,
Poured their dread destructive volumes
On the French and English ranks,
On the gallant allied ranks!
Earth and sky seemed rent asunder
By the loud incessant thunder!
When a strange but stern command-
Needless, heedless, rash command-
Came to Lucan's little band,-

Scarce six hundred men and horses
Of those vast contending forces: —
"England's lost unless you save her!
Charge the pass at Balaklava!"

O that rash and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!

Far away the Russian Eagles

Soar o'er smoking hill and dell,

And their hordes, like howling beagles,

Dense and countless, round them yell!
Thundering cannon, deadly mortar,
Sweep the field in every quarter!
Never, since the days of Jesus,
Trembled so the Chersonesus!

Here behold the Gallic Lilies-
Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies-
Float as erst at old Ramillies!
And beside them, lo! the Lion!
With her trophied Cross, is flying!
Glorious standards!-shall they waver
On the field of Balaklava?

No, by Heavens! at that command—
Sudden, rash, but stern command-
Charges Lucan's little band!

Brave Six Hundred! lo! they charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!

Down yon deep and skirted valley,

Where the crowded cannon play,— Where the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli,

Down that gorge they swept away!

Down that new Thermopyla,
Flashing swords and helmets see!

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