Lines on the Glasgow Volunteers

Hark! hark! the fife’s shrill notes arise,
And ardour beats the martial drum,
And broad the silken banner flies
Where Clutha’s native squadrons come.

Where spreads the green extended plain,
By music’s solemn marches trod.
Thick-glancing bayonets mark the train
That beat the meadow’s grassy sod.

These are no hireling sons of war.
No jealous tyrant’s grimly band,
The wish of freedom to debar
Or scourge a despot’s injured land!

Nought but the patriotic view
Of free-born valour ever fired
To baffle Gallia’s boastful crew
The soul of Northern breast inspired.

’Twas thus on Tiber’s sunny banks,
What time the Volscian ravaged nigh.
To mark afar her glittering ranks
Rome’s towering eagles shone on high.

There toil athletic on the field
In mock array portrayed alarm;
And taught the massy sword to wield,
And braced the nerve of Roman arm.