Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine

The following is from Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine:

The Old Scottish Cavalier

By W.E.A.

I

I'll sing you a new song, that should make your heart beat high,
Bring crimson to your forehead, and the lustre to your eye;--
It is a song of olden time, of days long since gone by,
And of a Baron stout and bold, as e'er wore sword on thigh!
    Like a brave old Scottish cavalier, all of the olden time!

II

He kept his castle in the north, hard by the thundering Spey;
And a thousand vassals dwelt around, all of his kindred they.
And not a man of all that clan had ever ceased to pray
For the Royal race they loved so well, though exiled far away
    From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers, all of the olden time.

III

His father drew the righteous sword for Scotland and her claims,
Among the loyal gentlemen and chiefs of ancient names,
Who swore to fight or fall beneath the standard of King James,
And died at Killiecrankie pass, with the glory of the Graemes,
    Like a true old Scottish cavalier, all of the olden time!

IV

He never own'd the foreign rule, no master he obey'd,
But kept his clan in peace at home, from foray and from raid;
And when they ask'd him for his oath, he touch'd his glittering blade,
And pointed to his bonnet blue that bore the white cockade,
    Like a leal old Scottish cavalier, all of the olden time!

V

At length the news ran through the land--THE PRINCE had come again!
That night the fiery cross was sped o'er mountain and through glen;
And our old Baron rose in might, like a lion from his den,
And rode away across the hills to Charlie and his men,
    With the valiant Scottish cavaliers, all of the olden time!

VI

He was the first that bent the knee when THE STANDARD waved abroad,
He was the first that charged the foe on Preston's bloody sod;
And ever, in the van of fight, the foremost still he trod,
Until, on bleak Culloden's heath, he gave his soul to God,
    Like a good old Scottish cavalier, all of the olden time!

VII

Oh! never shall we know again a heart so stout and true--
The olden times have pass'd away, and weary are the new:
The fair White Rose has faded from the garden where it grew,
And no fond tears but those of heaven the glorious bed bedew
    Of the last old Scottish cavalier, all of the olden time!

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