The hearts--the blessings of the brave-- Of those who scorn the name of slave, Are with you on the ocean's wave, And on the battle-plain, boys: Then rouse ye, rouse ye, every one, And gird your brightest armour on; Complete the work so well begun-- Victorious be again, boys!
Though red with gore your path may be, It leads to glorious liberty; Remember, God is with the free, The brave He will sustain, boys: The tyrant fears the coming fight, He fears the power of Truth and Right; Then up! then up! in all your might-- Victorious be again, boys.
The author of some spirited effusions in Scottish verse, William Air Foster, was born at Coldstream on the 16th June 1801. He has followed the occupation of a bootmaker, first in his native town, and latterly in Glasgow. Devoted to the Border sports, in which he was formerly an active performer, he has celebrated them in animated verse. To "Whistle Binkie" he has contributed a number of sporting and angling songs, and he has composed some volumes of poetry which are still in manuscript.
Fareweel to ilk hill whar the red heather grows, To ilk bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows, To the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din, To the graves o' my sires, and the hearths o' my kin.
Fareweel to ilk strath an' the lav'rock's sweet sang-- For trifles grow dear whan we 've kenn'd them sae lang; Round the wanderer's heart a bright halo they shed, A dream o' the past, when a' other's hae fled.
The young hearts may kythe, though they 're forced far away, But its dool to the spirit when haffets are gray; The saplin transplanted may flourish a tree, Whar the hardy auld aik wad but wither and dee.
They tell me I gang whar the tropic suns shine Owre landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine; For the objects sae dear that the heart had entwined Turn eerisome hame-thoughts, and sicken the mind.
No, my spirit shall stray whar the red heather grows! In the bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows, 'Neath the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din, 'Mang the graves o' my sires, round the hearths o' my kin.
AIR--_"There 's nae luck about the house."_
I sing of gentle woodcroft gay, for well I love to rove, With the spaniel at my side and the falcon on my glove; For the noble bird which graced my hand I feel my spirit swell, Array'd in all her hunting-gear--hood, jessy, leash, and bell.