The Island of the Scots

"Oh bury me by the bracken bush,Beneath the blooming brier:Let never living mortal kenThat a kindly Scot lies here!"

The Rhine is running deep and red,The island lies before--"Now is there one of all the hostWill dare to venture o'er?For not alone the river's sweepMight make a brave man quail:The foe are on the further side,Their shot comes fast as hail.God help us, if the middle isleWe may not hope to win!Now, is there any of the hostWill dare to venture in?"

"The ford is deep, the banks are steep,The island-shore lies wide:Nor man nor horse could stem its force,Or reach the further side.See there! amidst the willow boughsThe serried bayonets gleam;They've flung their bridge--they've won the isle;The foe have crossed the stream!Their volley flashes sharp and strong--By all the Saints, I trow,There never yet was soldier bornCould force that passage now!"

So spoke the bold French MareschalWith him who led the van,Whilst rough and red before their viewThe turbid river ran.Nor bridge nor boat had they to crossThe wild and swollen Rhine,And thundering on the other bankFar stretched the German line.Hard by there stood a swarthy manWas leaning on his sword,And a saddened smile lit up his faceAs he heard the Captain's word."I've seen a wilder stream ere nowThan that which rushes there;I've stemmed a heavier torrent yetAnd never thought to dare.If German steel be sharp and keen,Is ours not strong and true?There may be danger in the deed,But there is honour too."

The old lord in his saddle turned,And hastily he said--"Hath bold Dugueselin's fiery heartAwakened from the dead?Thou art the leader of the Scots--Now well and sure I know,That gentle blood in dangerous hourNe'er yet ran cold nor slow,And I have seen ye in the fightDo all that mortal may:If honour is the boon ye seekIt may be won this day.The prize is in the middle isle,There lies the venturous way;And armies twain are on the plain,The daring deed to see--Now ask thy gallant companyIf they will follow thee!"

Right gladsome looked the Captain then,And nothing did he say,But he turned him to his little band--Oh few, I ween, were they!The relics of the bravest forceThat ever fought in fray.No one of all that companyBut bore a gentle name,Not one whose fathers had not stoodIn Scotland's fields of fame.All they had marched with great DundeeTo where he fought and fell,And in the deadly battle-strifeHad venged their leader well;And they had bent the knee to earthWhen every eye was dim,As o'er their hero's buried corpseThey sang the funeral hymn;And they had trod the Pass once more,And stooped on either sideTo pluck the heather from the spotWhere he had dropped and died;And they had bound it next their hearts,And ta'en a last farewellOf Scottish earth and Scottish sky,Where Scotland's glory fell.Then went they forth to foreign landsLike bent and broken men,Who leave their dearest hope behind,And may not turn again!

"The stream," he said, "is broad and deep,And stubborn is the foe--Yon island-strength is guarded well--Say, brothers, will ye go?From home and kin for many a yearOur steps have wandered wide,And never may our bones be laidOur fathers' graves beside.No sisters have we to lament,No wives to wail our fall;The traitor's and the spoiler's handHave reft our hearths of all.But we have hearts, and we have armsAs strong to will and dareAs when our ancient banners flewWithin the northern air.Come, brothers; let me name a spellShall rouse your souls again,And send the old blood bounding freeThrough pulse, and heart, and vein!Call back the days of bygone years--Be young and strong once more;Think yonder stream, so stark and red,Is one we've crossed before.Rise, hill and glen! rise, crag and wood!Rise up on either hand--Again upon the Garry's banks,On Scottish soil we stand!Again I see the tartans wave,Again the trumpets ring;Again I hear our leader's call--'Upon them, for the King!'Stayed we behind that glorious dayFor roaring flood or linn?The soul of Græme is with us still--Now, brothers! will ye in?"

No stay--no pause. With one accordThey grasped each others' hand,And plunged into the angry flood,That bold and dauntless band.High flew the spray above their heads,Yet onward still they bore,Midst cheer, and shout, and answering yell,And shot and cannon roar."Now by the Holy Cross! I swear,Since earth and sea beganWas never such a daring deedEssayed by mortal man!"

Thick blew the smoke across the stream,And faster flashed the flame:The water plashed in hissing jetsAs ball and bullet came.Yet onwards pushed the CavaliersAll stern and undismayed,With thousand armèd foes before,And none behind to aid.Once, as they neared the middle stream,So strong the torrent swept,That scarce that long and living wall,Their dangerous footing kept.Then rose a warning cry behind,A joyous shout before:"The current's strong--the way is long--They'll never reach the shore!See, see! They stagger in the midst,They waver in their line!Fire on the madmen! break their ranks,And whelm them in the Rhine!"

Have you seen the tall trees swayingWhen the blast is piping shrill,And the whirlwind reels in furyDown the gorges of the hill?How they toss their mighty branches,Striving with the tempest's shock;How they keep their place of vantage,Cleaving firmly to the rock?Even so the Scottish warriorsHeld their own against the river;Though the water flashed around them,Not an eye was seen to quiver;Though the shot flew sharp and deadly,Not a man relaxed his hold:For their hearts were big and thrillingWith the mighty thoughts of old.One word was spoke among them,And through the ranks it spread--"Remember our dead Claverhouse!"Was all the Captain said.Then, sternly bending forward,They struggled on awhile,Until they cleared the heavy stream,Then rushed towards the isle.

The German heart is stout and true,The German arm is strong;The German foot goes seldom backWhere armèd foemen throng.But never had they faced in fieldSo stern a charge before,And never had they felt the sweepOf Scotland's broad claymore.Not fiercer pours the avalancheAdown the steep incline,That rises o'er the parent springsOf rough and rapid Rhine--Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heavenThan came the Scottish band,Right up against the guarded trench,And o'er it, sword in hand.In vain their leaders forward press--They meet the deadly brand!O lonely island of the Rhine,Where seed was never sown,What harvest lay upon thy sands,By those strong reapers thrown?What saw the winter moon that night,As, struggling through the rain,She poured a wan and fitful lightOn marsh, and stream, and plain?A dreary spot with corpses strewn,And bayonets glistening round;A broken bridge, a stranded boat,A bare and battered mound;And one huge watch-fire's kindled pile,That sent its quivering glareTo tell the leaders of the hostThe conquering Scots were there!

And did they twine the laurel-wreathFor those who fought so well?And did they honour those who lived,And weep for those who fell?What meed of thanks was given to themLet aged annals tell.Why should they twine the laurel-wreath--Why crown the cup with wine?It was not Frenchman's blood that flowedSo freely on the Rhine--A stranger band of beggared menHad done the venturous deed:The glory was to France alone,The danger was their meed.And what cared they for idle thanksFrom foreign prince and peer?What virtue had such honeyed wordsThe exiles' hearts to cheer?What mattered it that men should vaunt,And loud and fondly swear,That higher feat of chivalryWas never wrought elsewhere?They bore within their breasts the griefThat fame can never heal--The deep, unutterable woeWhich none save exiles feel.Their hearts were yearning for the landThey ne'er might see again--For Scotland's high and heathered hills,For mountain, loch, and glen--For those who haply lay at restBeyond the distant sea,Beneath the green and daisied turfWhere they would gladly be!

Long years went by. The lonely isleIn Rhine's impetuous floodHas ta'en another name from thoseWho bought it with their blood:And though the legend does not live,For legends lightly die,The peasant, as he sees the streamIn winter rolling by,And foaming o'er its channel-bedBetween him and the spotWon by the warriors of the sword,Still calls that deep and dangerous fordThe Passage of the Scot.