Sword an' buckler an' a',
Buckler an' sword an' a,
For George we'll encounter the devil,
Wi' sword an' buckler an' a'.
An Oh! I wad eagerly press him
The keys o' the East to retain,
For should he gie up the possession,
We'll soon hae to force them again :
Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour,
Though it were my finishin' blow,
aye may depend on Macdonald,
Wi's highlandmen all in a row.
Knees an' elbows an' a',
Elbows an' knees an' a':
Depend upon Donald Macdonald,
His knees an' elbows an' a'.
If Bonaparte land at Fort-William,
Auld Europe nae langer shall grane;
I laugh when I think how we'll gall him
Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an' wi' stane :
Wi' rocks o' the Nevis an' Gairy
We'll rattle him aff frae the shore,
Or lull him asleep in a cairney,
And sing him Lochaber no more!
Stanes an' bullets an' a',
Bullets an' stanes an' a';
We'll finish the Corsican callan'
Wi' stanes an' bullets an' a'.
The Gordon is gude in a hurry,
An' Campbell is steel to the bane,
An' Grant, an' Mackenzie, an' Murray,
An' Cameron will hurkle to nane.
The Stuart is sturdy and wannel,
An' sae is Macleod an' Mackay;
An' I their gude-brither Macdonald
Sall never be last in the fray.
Brogues an' brochen an a',
Brochen an' brogues an' a';
up wi' the bonny blue bonnet, The kilt an' the feather an' a'.
THE THISTLE'S GROWN ABOON THE
Full white the Bourbon lily blows,
And fairer haughty England's rose;
Nor shall unsung the symbol smile,
Green Ireland, of thy lovely isle.
In Scotland grows a warlike flower,
Too rough to bloom in lady's bower;
His crest, when high the soldier bears,
And spurs his courser on the spears,
O there it blossoms-there it blows,-
The thistle's grown aboon the rose.
Bright like a stedfast star it smiles
Aboon the battle's burning files;
The mirkest cloud, the darkest night,
Shall ne'er make dim that beauteous light;
And the best blood that warms my vein
Shall flow ere it shall catch a stain.
Far has it shone on fields of fame,
From matchless Bruce till dauntless Graeme,
From swarthy Spain to Siber's snows ;—
The thistle's grown aboon the rose.
What conquer'd ay, what nobly spared,
What firm endured, and greatly dared?
What redden'd Egypt's burning sand?
What vanquish'd on Corunna's strand?
What pipe on green Maida blew shrill ?
What dyed in blood Barossa hill?
Bade France's dearest life-blood rue
Dark Soignies and dread Waterloo?
That spirit which no terror knows ;—
The thistle's grown aboon the rose.
I vow-and let men mete the grass
For his red grave who dares say less-
Men kinder at the festive board,
Men braver with the spear and sword,
Men higher famed for truth-more strong In virtue, sovereign sense, and song,
Or maids more fair, or wives more true, Than Scotland's, ne'er trode down the dew. Round flies the song-the flagon flows,The thistle's grown aboon the rose.
Red glows the forge in Striguil's bounds,
The hammers din, and anvil sounds,
And armourers with iron toil
many a steed for battle's broil :
Foul fall the hand that bends the steel
Around the courser's thundering heel,
That e'er shall dint a sable wound
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground!
From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn,
Was heard afar the bugle-horn;
And forth in banded pomp and pride
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride.
They swore their banners broad should gleam
In crimson light on Rymney's stream;
They vowed Caerphilly's sod should feel
The Norman charger's spurning heel.
And sooth they swore-the sun arose,
And Rymney's wave with crimson glows:
For Clare's red banner floating wide
Rolled down the stream to Severn's tide.
And sooth they vowed-the trampled green
Showed where hot Neville's charge had been ;
In every sable hoof-tramp stood
A Norman horseman's curdling blood.
Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil
That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil :
Their orphans long the art may rue
For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe.
No more the tramp of armed steed
Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead;
Nor trace be there in early spring,
Save of the fairies' emerald ring.
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