“And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he

may,

For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war,

And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled

din

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.

The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's

plain,

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,

Charge for the golden lilies, upon them with the lance.

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snowwhite crest;

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Na

varre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours.

turned his rein.

Mayenne hath

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count

is slain.

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.

And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our

van,

"Remember Saint Bartholomew!" was passed from

man to man.

But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go."

O, was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Na

varre?

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for
France to-day,

And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.
But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;
And the good Lord of Rosny has ta'en the cornet white,
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en,
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false
Lorraine.

Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know

How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His Church such woe.

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war,

Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of

Navarre.

THE OLD SCOTTISH CAVALIER

WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN

OME listen to another song,

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!

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!

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 Græmes;
Like a true old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!

He never owned the foreign rule,
No master he obeyed,

But kept his clan in peace at home,
From foray and from raid;

And when they asked him for his oath,
He touched 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!

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!

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!

O, never shall we know again
A heart so stout and true,
The olden times have passed away,
And weary are the new;

The fair white rose has faded

From the garden where it grew,

But no fond tears save those of heaven,

The glorious bed bedew

Of the last old Scottish cavalier,

All of the olden time.