"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, 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! On the battle's bloody marge! All the day the Russian columns, Scarce six hundred men and horses O that rash and fatal charge, Far away the Russian Eagles Soar o'er smoking hill and dell, And their hordes, like howling beagles, Dense and countless, round them yell! Here behold the Gallic Lilies- No, by Heavens! at that command— Brave Six Hundred! lo! they charge, 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, |