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Where now the coofs wha boded wae,

An' cauldness o’er thy efforts threw; An' where the proudest, fellest fae

Frae hell’s black porch that ever flew ?

O he might conquer feckless kings

Those bars in Nature's onward planBut fool is he the yoke that flings

O'er the unshackled soul of man. 'Tis like a cobweb o'er the breast,

That binds the giant while asleep; Or curtain hung upon the east

The daylight from the world to keep.

Here's to the hands sae lang upbore

The Rose and Shamrock, blooming still; An' here's the burly plant of yore,

The Thistle o' the norlan' hill ! Lang may auld Britain's banners pale

Stream o'er the seas her might has won; Lang may her Lions paw the gale,

An' turn their dewlaps to the sun!


The following are the singing verses of a pastoral effusion, published long ago.

The flush of the landscape is o'er,

The brown leaves are shed on the way,
The dye of the lone mountain flower

Grows wan, and betokens decay;
The spring in our valleys is born,

Like the bud that it fosters, to die,
Like the transient dews of the morn,

Or the vapour that melts in the sky.

So youth, with its visions so gay,

Departs like a dream of the mind,
To pleasure and passion a prey,

That lead to the sorrows behind ;

Its virtues too buoyant to grow,

Its follies too latent to die

We shall reap of the seeds we then sow,

When the stars have dissolved in the sky.

All silent the song of the thrush,

Bewilder'd she cowers in the dale;

The blackbird sits lone on the bush

The fall of the leaf they bewail. All nature thus tends to decay,

And to drop as the leaves from the tree And man, just the flower of a day,

How long, long his winter will be !


This song was written for, and sung at, the great football match at Carterhaugh, on the 5th of December, 1815, when the old tattered banner of Buccleuch was displayed at the head of the combatants. It was the first rallying standard of the clan, and is very ancient.

And hast thou here, like hermit grey,

Thy mystic characters unroll’d,
O'er peaceful revellers to play,

Thou emblem of the days of old !
Or com’st thou with the veteran's smile,

Who deems his day of conquest fled,
Yet loves to view the bloodless toil

Of sons whose sires he often led ?

Not such thy peaceable intent,

When over Border waste and wood,

On foray and achievement bent,

Like eagle on his path of blood. Symbol to ancient valour dear,

Much has been dared and done for thee; I almost weep to see thee here,

And deem thee raised in mockery.

But no-familiar to the brave,

'Twas thine thy gleaming moon and star Above their manly sports to wave,

As free as in the field of war ;
To thee the faithful clansman's shout,

In revel as in rage, was dear-
The more beloved in festal rout,

The better fenced when foes were near.

I love thee for the olden day,

The iron age of hardihood,
The rather that thou led’st the way

To peace and joy through paths of blood; For were it not the deeds of weir,

When thou wert foremost in the fray,

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