Page:Collection of songs &c. (1).pdf/4

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Now there’s peace on the shore, and there’s calm on the sea, Fill a glass to the heroes whose words kept us free, Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee; Oh! the broad swords of old Scotland, And oh! the old Scottish broad swords.

Old Sir Ralph Abercromby— the good and the brave,— Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with the slave, Whose libation falls slow as we honour his grave, Oh! the broad swords, &c.

Though he died not like him, amidst victory’s roar Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud the shore, Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore; Oh! the broad swords, &c.

Yea, a place with the fall’n the living shall claim We’ll entwine in one wreath every glorious name The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Graham; Oh! the broad swords, &c.

Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves the Forth, Count the stars in the clear cloudless sky of the north,