Troops Leaving Edinburgh

For Freedom's battle inarch auld Scotland's brave,
And Edinburgh streets are piled with life to-day.

High on her crags the royal City sits,
And sees the files of war far- winding out,
And with the gracious golden Morning smiles
Her proudest blessing down. Old Arthur's Seat
Flings up his cap of cloud for brave success;

But the old castle standeth staidly stern,
As some scarred Chief who sends his boys to battle:

"While the Sea flashes in the su,n, our Shield,
So rich in record of 'heroic names!

The gay Hussars come riding through the town,
A light of triumph sparkling in their eyes;
The Music goeth shouting in their praise,
Like a loud people round the Victor's car;
And Highland plumes together nod as though
There went the Funeral Hearse of a Russian host:
The bickering bayonets flutter wings of fire,
And gaily sounds the march o' the Cameron Men.

The War-steeds sweeping — men to battle going —
The wave of Beauty's hand — meed of her eyes —
The banners with old battle-memories stirred —
The thrilling Pibroch, and the wild war-drum,
The stern sword-music of our grand Hurrah,
And answering cheer for death or victory —
All make me tingle with a triumph of life,
And I could weep that I am left behind,
To see the tide ebb where I may not follow.

And there the gallant fellows march afield;
To win proud death, or larger life, they leave
Home's rosy circle ringed with blessings rich,
For the far darkness and the battle-cloud,
Where many have fall'n, and many yet must fall
In spurring their great hearts up to the leap,
For such brave dashes at unconquered heights.
The shadow of solemn Sorrow falls behind,
Where sobbing Sweethearts look their loving last,
And weeping Wives hold up the little ones.
The sun sets in their faces, life grows grey,
And sighs of desolation sweep its desert.
The winter of the heart aches in the eyes
Of Mothers who have given their all, their all.

And yet methinks the Heroic Time returns,
Such look of triumph lights the meanest face
To-day: there seems no heart so earthy but
Has some blind gropings after nobler life,
With hands that reach toward God's Gate Beautiful.
Our England bright'ning thro' the battle smoke,
Has touched them with her glory's lovelier light.
And though their darlings fall, and though they die
In this death-grapple in the night with Wrong;
The memory of their proud deeds cannot die.

They may go down to dust in bloody shrouds,
And sleep in nameless tombs. But for all time,
Foundlings of Fame are our beloved Lost.

For me, this day of glorious life shall be
One of the starry brides of Memory,
Whose glittering faces light the night of soul.