The Burial March of Dundee

"Then out spake gallant Claverhouse, and his soul thrilled wild and high,And he showed the King his subjects, and he prayed him not to fly.O never yet was captain so dauntless as Dundee!He has sworn to chase the Hollander back to his Zuyder-Zee."

"Ultime Scotorum! potuit, quo sospite solo,Libertas patriæ salva fuisse tuæ:Te moriente, novos accepit Scotia cives,Accepitque novos, te moriente, deos.Illa nequit superesse tibi, tu non potes illi,Ergo Caledoniæ nomen inane, vale.Tuque vale, gentis priscæ fortissime ductor,Ultime Scotorum, ac ultime Grame, vale!"

Sound the fife, and cry the slogan--Let the pibroch shake the airWith its wild triumphal music,Worthy of the freight we bear.Let the ancient hills of ScotlandHear once more the battle-songSwell within their glens and valleysAs the clansmen march along!Never from the field of combat,Never from the deadly fray,Was a nobler trophy carriedThan we bring with us to-day;Never, since the valiant DouglasOn his dauntless bosom boreGood King Robert's heart--the priceless--To our dear Redeemer's shore!Lo! we bring with us the hero--Lo! we bring the conquering Græme,Crowned as best beseems a victorFrom the altar of his fame;Fresh and bleeding from the battleWhence his spirit took its flight,Midst the crashing charge of squadrons,And the thunder of the fight!Strike, I say, the notes of triumph,As we march o'er moor and lea!Is there any here will ventureTo bewail our dead Dundee?Let the widows of the traitorsWeep until their eyes are dim!Wail ye may full well for Scotland--Let none dare to mourn for him!See! above his glorious bodyLies the royal banner's fold--See! his valiant blood is mingledWith its crimson and its gold.See! how calm he looks and stately,Like a warrior on his shield,Waiting till the flush of morningBreaks along the battle-field!See--Oh never more, my comrades!Shall we see that falcon eyeRedden with its inward lightning,As the hour of fight drew nigh;Never shall we hear the voice that,Clearer than the trumpet's call,Bade us strike for King and Country,Bade us win the field or fall!On the heights of KilliecrankieYester-morn our army lay:Slowly rose the mist in columnsFrom the river's broken way;Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent,And the pass was wrapped in gloom,When the clansmen rose togetherFrom their lair amidst the broom.Then we belted on our tartans,And our bonnets down we drew,And we felt our broadswords' edges,And we proved them to be true;And we prayed the prayer of soldiers,And we cried the gathering-cry,And we clasped the hands of kinsmen,And we swore to do or die!Then our leader rode before usOn his war-horse black as night--Well the Cameronian rebelsKnew that charger in the fight!--And a cry of exultationFrom the bearded warriors rose;For we loved the house of Claver'se,And we thought of good Montrose.But he raised his hand for silence--"Soldiers! I have sworn a vow:Ere the evening-star shall glistenOn Schehallion's lofty brow,Either we shall rest in triumph,Or another of the GraemesShall have died in battle-harnessFor his Country and King James!Think upon the Royal Martyr--Think of what his race endure--Think on him whom butchers murder'dOn the field of Magus Muir:--By his sacred blood I charge ye,By the ruin'd hearth and shrine--By the blighted hopes of Scotland,By your injuries and mine--Strike this day as if the anvilLay beneath your blows the while,Be they Covenanting traitors,Or the brood of false Argyle!Strike! and drive the trembling rebelsBackwards o'er the stormy Forth;Let them tell their pale ConventionHow they fared within the North.Let them tell that Highland honourIs not to be bought nor sold,That we scorn their Prince's anger,As we loathe his foreign gold.Strike! and when the fight is over,If ye look in vain for me,Where the dead are lying thickest,Search for him that was Dundee!"

Loudly then the hills re-echoedWith our answer to his call,But a deeper echo soundedIn the bosoms of us all.For the lands of wide Breadalbane,Not a man who heard him speakWould that day have left the battle.Burning eye and flushing cheekTold the clansmen's fierce emotion,And they harder drew their breath;For their souls were strong within them,Stronger than the grasp of death.Soon we heard a challenge-trumpetSounding in the pass below,And the distant tramp of horses,And the voices of the foe:Down we crouched amid the bracken,Till the Lowland ranks drew near,Panting like the hounds in summer,When they scent the stately deer.From the dark defile emerging,Next we saw the squadrons come,Leslie's foot and Leven's troopersMarching to the tuck of drum;Through the scattered wood of birches,O'er the broken ground and heath,Wound the long battalion slowly,Till they gained the field beneath;Then we bounded from our covert.--Judge how looked the Saxons then,When they saw the rugged mountainStart to life with armèd men!Like a tempest down the ridges,Swept the hurricane of steel,Rose the slogan of Macdonald--Flashed the broadsword of Locheill!Vainly sped the withering volley'Mongst the foremost of our band--On we poured until we met them,Foot to foot, and hand to hand.Horse and man went down like drift-woodWhen the floods are black at Yule,And their carcasses are whirlingIn the Garry's deepest pool.Horse and man went down before us--Living foe there tarried noneOn the field of Killiecrankie,When that stubborn fight was done!

And the evening-star was shiningOn Schehallion's distant head,When we wiped our bloody broadswords,And returned to count the dead.There we found him, gashed and gory,Stretch'd upon the cumbered plain,As he told us where to seek him,In the thickest of the slain.And a smile was on his visage,For within his dying earPealed the joyful note of triumph,And the clansmen's clamorous cheer:So, amidst the battle's thunder,Shot, and steel, and scorching flame,In the glory of his manhoodPassed the spirit of the Græme!Open wide the vaults of Athol,Where the bones of heroes rest--Open wide the hallowed portalsTo receive another guest!Last of Scots, and last of freemen--Last of all that dauntless raceWho would rather die unsulliedThan outlive the land's disgrace!O thou lion-hearted warrior!Reck not of the after-time:Honour may be deemed dishonour,Loyalty be called a crime.Sleep in peace with kindred ashesOf the noble and the true,Hands that never failed their country,Hearts that never baseness knew.Sleep!--and till the latest trumpetWakes the dead from earth and sea,Scotland shall not boast a braverChieftain than our own Dundee!