Jon, do you remember when you used to spout “Pibroch of Donald Dhu”?  I think you were ten years old.  Sir Walter Scott’s men all have a genius for standing up to their guns, and boys gather up the man’s genius when reciting his verse. (1771-1832.)

    Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
      Pibroch of Donuil,
    Wake thy wild voice anew,
      Summon Clan Conuil. 
    Come away, come away,
      Hark to the summons! 
    Come in your war-array,
      Gentles and commons.

    Come from deep glen, and
      From mountain so rocky,
    The war-pipe and pennon
      Are at Inverlochy. 
    Come every hill-plaid, and
      True heart that wears one,
    Come every steel blade, and
      Strong hand that bears one.

    Leave untended the herd,
      The flock without shelter;
    Leave the corpse uninterr’d,
      The bride at the altar;
    Leave the deer, leave the steer,
      Leave nets and barges: 
    Come with your fighting gear,
      Broadswords and targes.

    Come as the winds come, when
      Forests are rended;
    Come as the waves come, when
      Navies are stranded: 
    Faster come, faster come,
      Faster and faster,
    Chief, vassal, page, and groom,
      Tenant and master.

    Fast they come, fast they come;
      See how they gather! 
    Wide waves the eagle plume
      Blended with heather,
    Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
      Forward each man set! 
    Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
      Knell for the onset!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 MARCO BOZZARIS.

“Marco Bozzaris,” by Fitz-Greene Halleck (1790-1867), was in my old school-reader.  Boys and girls liked it then and they like it now.  This is another of the poems that was not born to die.

    At midnight, in his guarded tent,
      The Turk was dreaming of the hour
    When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
      Should tremble at his power: 
    In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
    The trophies of a conqueror;
      In dreams his song of triumph heard;
    Then wore his monarch’s signet ring: 
    Then pressed that monarch’s throne—­a king;
    As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
      As Eden’s garden bird.

    At midnight, in the forest shades,
      Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
    True as the steel of their tried blades,
      Heroes in heart and hand. 
    There had the Persian’s thousands stood,
    There had the glad earth drunk their blood
      On old Plataea’s day;
    And now there breathed that haunted air
    The sons of sires who conquered there,
    With arm to strike and soul to dare,
      As quick, as far as they.