Lord Ullin's Daughter

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,

Cries, ``Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound

To row us o'er the ferry!''--

``Now, who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy weather?''

``O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.--

``And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together,

For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

``His horsemen hard behind us ride;

Should they our steps discover,

Then who will cheer my bonny bride

When they have slain her lover?''--

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,--

``I'll go, my chief--I'm ready:--

It is not for your silver bright;

But for your winsome lady:

``And by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry;

So, though the waves are raging white,

I'll row you o'er the ferry.''--

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking;

And in the scowl of heaven each face

Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer,

Adown the glen rode armèd men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.--

``O haste thee, haste!'' the lady cries,

``Though tempests round us gather;

I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father.''--

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,--

When, O! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gather'd o'er her.

And still they row'd amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,--

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismay'd through storm and shade,

His child he did discover:--

One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,

And one was round her lover.

``Come back! come back!'' he cried in grief

``Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!--O my daughter!''

'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,

Return or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

Thomas Campbell

Hohenlinden

ON Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;

And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,

When the drum beat at dead of night,

Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,

Each horseman drew his battle-blade,

And furious every charger neighed

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,

Then rushed the steed to battle driven,

And louder than the bolts of heaven

Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow

On Linden's hills of stainèd snow,

And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun

Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun

Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,

Who rush to glory, or the grave!

Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet!

The snow shall be their winding-sheet,

And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

Thomas Campbell

Ye Mariners of England

YE mariners of England

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe,

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave,

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,

Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak,

She quells the floods below,--

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow;

When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean warriors,

Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;

When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow.

Thomas Campbell