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DRAW THE SWORD, SCOTLAND.
Poetry by J. R. Planche. Altered and arranged by G. Herbert Rodwell. Sung by Mr Sinclair and Mr Thorne.
Draw the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland!
Over mountain and moor hath passed the war-sign:
The pibroch is pealing, pealing, pealing,
Who hceds not the summons is nae son o' thine.
The clans they are gath'ring, gath'ring, gath'ring,
The clans they are gath'ring by loch and by lea;
The banners they are flying, flying, flying,
The banners they are flying that lead to victory,
Draw the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland!
Charge as ye've charged in the days o' langsyne;
Sound to the onset, the onset, the onset,
He who but falters is nae son o' thine.
Sheath the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland!
Shcath the sword, Scotland, for dimmed is its shine:
Thy foemen are fleeing, fleeing, fleeing,
And wha kens nae mercy is nae son o' thine!
The struggle is over, over, over,
The struggle is over!-the victory won!
There are tears for the fallen, the fallen, the fallen,
And glory for all who their duty have done!
Sheath the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland!
With thy loved thistle new laurels entwine;
Time shall ne'er part them, part them, part them,
But hand down the garland to each son o' thine.
———
HOW BLEST THE MAID.
A Duet.
How blest the maid whose bosom no headstrong passion knows!
Her days in joy she passcs, her nights in calm repose
Where'er her fancy leads her,
No pain, no fear invades her
But pleasure, without measure, from every object flows.
