Classic Poem

Come listen to another song,
— Should make your heart beat high,
Bring crimson to your forehead,
— And the luster to your eye; —
It is the song of the 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 Graemes;
— — 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 P RINCE 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 S TANDARD 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!

Oh, 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,
And no fond tears, save those of heaven,
— The glorious bed bedew
— — Of the last old Scottish cavalier
— — — All of the olden time!