Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/571

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[, the author of this patriotic eflfusion, which is here printed for the first time, was born on the 17th of August, 1789, at Frith, in the parish of Lilliesleaf, Roxburghshire; he died on the 12th November, 1825, at No. 9, Navy Street, Leithwalk, Edinburgh, in the 36th year of his age. Knox early evinced a passion for poetry, and during the latter part of his life gave to the world many separate publications, which have been much esteemed. The first was "The Lonely Hearth; and other Poems," published in North Shields in 1818. He successively published in Edinburgh "The Songs of Israel," "The Harp of Zion," and several other productions in prose and verse; and contributed many articles to "The Edinburgh Magazine." In Volume XV. of that work, for the year 1824, he contributed a series of papers under the title of "Walks in Edinburgh, by Dick Peppermint," which the late Dr. Robert Anderson, who thought highly of his abilities, declared were well worthy of separate publication. Knox was a kind and affectionate son, and a most agreeable companion; and his writings will obtain for him a respectable position among the minor poets of our country.]

Caledonians, my brothers, my friends,

Now sorrow is borne on the wings of the winds,

Care sleeps with the sun in the seas of the west,

And courage is lull'd in the warrior's breast:

Here social pleasure enlivens each heart,

And friendship is ready its warmth to impart,

The goblet is fill'd, and each worn-one partakes,

To drink plenty and peace to the dear Land of Cakes.

Though the Bourbon may boast of his vine-cover'd hills,—

Through each bosom the tide of depravity thrills;

Though the Indian may sit in his green orange bowers,—

There slavery's wail counts the weariesome hours:

Though our island is beat by the storms of the north,—

There blaze the bright meteors of valour and worth,

There the loveliest rose-bud of beauty awakes

From that cradle of virtue—the dear Land of Cakes.

O valour! thou guardian of freedom and truth,

Thou stay of old age and thou guidance of youth,

Still, still thy enthusiast transports pervade

The breast that is wrapt in the green tartan plaid:

And ours are the shoulders that never shall bend

To the rod of a tyrant, that scourge of a land,—

Ours the bosoms no terror of death ever shakes,

When called in defence of the dear Land of Cakes!

Shall the ghosts of our fathers, aloft on each cloud—

When the rage of the battle is dreadful and loud—

See us shrink from our standard with fear and dismay,

And leave to our foemen the pride of the day?

No; by heavens! we will stand to our honour and trust,

Till our hearts-blood be shed on our ancestors' dust;—

Till we sink to the slumber no war-trumpet breaks,

Beneath the brown heath of the dear Land of Cakes.