I.
Night and morning were at meeting Over Waterloo;
Cocks had sung their earliest greeting; Faint and low they crew,
For no paly beam yet
On the heights of Mount Saint John;
Tempest-clouds prolonged the
Of timeless darkness over day;
Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and
Marked it a predestined hour.
Broad and frequent through the
Flashed the sheets of levin-light:
Muskets, glancing lightnings back,
Showed the dreary bivouac Where the soldier lay,
Chill and stiff, and drenched with rain,
Wishing dawn of morn again, Though death should come with day.
II.'Tis at such a tide and
Wizard, witch, and fiend have power,
And ghastly forms through mist and shower Gleam on the gifted ken;
And then the affrighted prophet's
Drinks whispers strange of fate and
Presaging death and ruin near Among the sons of men;—Apart from Albyn's war-array,'Twas then grey Allan sleepless lay;
Grey Allan, who, for many a day, Had followed stout and stern,
Where, through battle's rout and reel,
Storm of shot and edge of steel,
Led the grandson of Lochiel, Valiant Fassiefern.
Through steel and shot he leads no more,
Low laid 'mid friends' and foemen's gore—But long his native lake's wild shore,
And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower, And Morven long shall tell,
And proud Bennevis hear with
How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras,
Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra Of conquest as he fell.
II.
Lone on the outskirts of the host,
The weary sentinel held post,
And heard, through darkness far aloof,
The frequent clang of courser's hoof,
Where held the cloaked patrol their course,
And spurred 'gainst storm the swerving horse;
But there are sounds in Allan's ear,
Patrol nor sentinel may hear,
And sights before his eye
Invisible to them have passed, When down the destined plain,'Twixt Britain and the bands of France,
Wild as marsh-borne meteor's glance,
Strange phantoms wheeled a revel dance, And doomed the future slain.—Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard,
When Scotland's James his march prepared For Flodden's fatal plain;
Such, when he drew his ruthless sword,
As Choosers of the Slain, adored The yet unchristened Dane.
An indistinct and phantom band,
They wheeled their ring-dance hand in hand, With gestures wild and dread;
The Seer, who watched them ride the storm,
Saw through their faint and shadowy form The lightning's flash more red;
And still their ghastly
Was of the coming battle-fray, And of the destined dead.
IV.
Wheel the wild
While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud,
And call the
To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud.
Our airy feet,
So light and fleet, They do not bend the
That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave,
And swells again in eddying wave, As each wild gust blows by;
But still the corn,
At dawn of morn, Our fatal steps that bore,
At eve lies waste,
A trampled paste Of blackening mud and gore.
Wheel the wild
While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud,
And call the
To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud.
V.
Wheel the wild dance!
Brave sons of France, For you our ring makes room;
Make space full
For martial pride, For banner, spear, and plume.
Approach, draw near,
Proud cuirassier! Room for the men of steel!
Through crest and
The broadsword's weight Both head and heart shall feel.
VI.
Wheel the wild
While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud,
And call the
To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud.
Sons of the spear!
You feel us near In many a ghastly dream;
With fancy's
Our forms you spy, And hear our fatal scream.
With clearer
Ere falls the night, Just when to weal or
Your disembodied souls take
On trembling wing—each startled sprite Our choir of death shall know.
II.
Wheel the wild
While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud,
And call the
To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud.
Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers,
Redder rain shall soon be ours— See the east grows wan—Yield we place to sterner game,
Ere deadlier bolts and direr
Shall the welkin's thunders shame,
Elemental rage is tame To the wrath of man.
II.
At morn, grey Allan's mates with
Heard of the visioned sights he saw, The legend heard him say;
But the Seer's gifted eye was dim,
Deafened his ear, and stark his limb, Ere closed that bloody day.
He sleeps far from his Highland heath,
But often of the Dance of Death His comrades tell the
On picquet-post, when ebbs the night,
And waning watch-fires glow less bright, And dawn is glimmering pale.
