Three Excellent Songs (n.d., Newton-Stewart)/The Tears of Scotland
THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.
Mourn, helpless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground.
Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door:
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground.
Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door:
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.
The wretched owner sees afar
His all become the prey of war,
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks;
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain!
Thy infants perish on the plain.
His all become the prey of war,
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks;
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain!
Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it then in every clime,
Through the wide-spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy towering spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke:
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancour fell.
Through the wide-spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy towering spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke:
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancour fell.
The rural pipe and merry lay
No more shall cheer the happy day;
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No strains, but those of sorrow, flow,
And nought is heard but sounds of wo,
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.
No more shall cheer the happy day;
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No strains, but those of sorrow, flow,
And nought is heard but sounds of wo,
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.
Oh banefull cause! oh, fatal morn,
Accursed to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their fathers stood,
The parent shed his children's blood:
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's soul was not appeas'd;
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames and murdering steel.
Accursed to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their fathers stood,
The parent shed his children's blood:
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's soul was not appeas'd;
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames and murdering steel.
The pious mother, doom'd to death,
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath:
The bleak wind whistles o'er her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread.
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath:
The bleak wind whistles o'er her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread.
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breast shall beat
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow.
Mourn, hapless Caledoina, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breast shall beat
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow.
Mourn, hapless Caledoina, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
