Immortal Songs of Camp and Field

“But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonnie bounds,
But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonnie bounds;
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While wide through all our Highland hills his war-like name resounds,
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While wide through all our Highland hills his war-like name resounds.”

    – Annie McVicar Grant.
The father of Annie McVicar was an officer in the British army and was transferred to this country for service in the American Colonies in 1757. When he left the old country with his troops his little daughter was but two years old. Soon after he went away the little girl wandered from home one day, greatly to the alarm of her family. She was overtaken by a friend, and when asked where she was going said, “I am going to America to see papa.”

In 1758, the mother and little girl crossed the ocean and landed at Charleston, finding still a long, tiresome trip to make before they rejoined the beloved soldier father, who was stationed at Albany, New York. Here it was, in this then frontier land, that Annie grew to girlhood. She had only two treasures besides Indian trinkets and relics of Scotland, and these were Milton and a dictionary. She committed Paradise Lost to memory, and the blind poet’s good and evil angels became as real to her as the soldiers about the fort. One day, when in the presence of Madame Schuyler, who was the great lady of Albany at that time, the little girl made a very appropriate quotation from Milton which so delighted the fashionable woman that thereafter she showed the child much kindness and regarded her as though she had been her own daughter.

When Annie was thirteen years old her father was transferred again to Scotland, and a few years later, at Fort Augustus, Annie McVicar fell in love with James Grant, the chaplain of the fort. She did her duty as a minister’s wife, and one can imagine that she had plenty to do, as eight children came to their fireside, one after another, in rapid succession. Mr. Grant died poor, leaving his wife with these eight children dependent upon her. She must do something to make a living and keep the wolf from the door, and in her sore straits she gathered up the poems which she had written from time to time, and successfully published them by subscription. Afterward she brought out several volumes entitled Letters from the Mountains, which passed through several editions and brought her considerable profit. These fairly launched her on the sea of authorship, and many volumes of prose and verse followed, which, together with a pension granted her by the government, placed her in most comfortable circumstances, and she reached the ripe age of eighty-four, surrounded by a large circle of admiring friends in the city of Edinburgh.

Mrs. Grant wrote The Blue Bells of Scotland on the occasion of the departure of the Marquis of Huntly for the Continent with his regiment of Highland troops in 1799. A book entitled The North Country Chorister, printed in 1802, included this song under the title The New Highland Lad. Ritson, the editor of this book, says: “The song has been lately introduced upon the stage. It was originally The Bells of Scotland, but was revised by Mrs. Jordan, who altered the words and sang them to a tune of her own which superseded the old air.” When Charles Mackay and Sir Henry Rowley Bishop were arranging old English airs, this song came under discussion. Mackay says: “The Blue Bells of Scotland is almost invariably spoken of as a Scottish air; but Sir Henry found reason to suspect that it was English, and urged me to write new words to it, to dispossess, if possible, the old song of Mrs. Jordan. He was induced to form this opinion by receiving from Mr. Fitzgerald ‘a Sussex tune’ to a song commencing: ‘Oh, I have been forester this many a long day.’ Three or four bars of the melody were almost identical with the second part of The Blue Bells of Scotland, but as the remainder bore no resemblance to that popular favorite, and the whole tune was so beautiful that it was well worth preserving, I so far complied with Sir Henry’s wish as to write The Magic Harp to Mr. Fitzgerald’s kind contribution to our work. Sir Henry wrote under date of the 22nd of October, 1852, ‘I am strongly of the opinion that when Mrs. Jordan composed the music of The Blue Bells of Scotland, she founded the air upon that rescued from oblivion for us by Mr. Fitzgerald – or rather that she originally intended to sing it to that tune, but finding some parts of it too high for her voice, which was of a very limited compass, she altered them, and the air became that of The Blue Bells of Scotland.’”

Mrs. Grant’s Highland Laddie and Mrs. Jordan’s Blue Bells of Scotland have kept time together so long now, that it is not likely any musical critic will ever disturb them again. The following altered version of Mrs. Grant’s song has in some places been even more popular than the original: —

“Oh where, and oh where is your Highland laddie gone?
‘He’s gone to fight the French for King George upon the throne;
And it’s oh! in my heart, how I wish him safe at home.’

“Oh where, and oh where does your Highland laddie dwell?
‘He dwells in merrie Scotland, at the sign of the Blue Bell;
And it’s oh, in my heart, that I love my laddie well.’

“What clothes, in what clothes is your Highland laddie clad?
‘His bonnet’s of the Saxon green, his waistcoat’s of the plaid;
And it’s oh! in my heart, that I love my Highland lad.’

“Suppose, oh, suppose that your Highland lad should die?
‘The bagpipes shall play over him, I’ll lay me down and cry;
And it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish he may not die!’”

RECESSIONAL

God of our fathers, known of old —
Lord of our far-flung battle line —
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine —
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget – lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies —
The captains and the kings depart;
Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,
A humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget – lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away —
On dune and headland sinks the fire —
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget – lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not thee in awe;
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law —
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget – lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard —
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And, guarding, calls not thee to guard —
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on thy people, Lord!
Amen.

    – Rudyard Kipling.
Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee, celebrated on the 22nd of June, 1897, has gone into history as the greatest human pageant in the whole story of humanity. As sovereign of Great Britain and Ireland and Empress of India, she occupies the most powerful position on earth. In addition to the material power represented, the admiration and love in which she is held by the truest people of every nation and kindred, because of her wise reign as well as her long and pure life, swelled her jubilee into a tribute of the united affection of civilized mankind. Preparations were made for months beforehand. Representatives from kings and presidents, as well as from the army and navy of every country in the world, came to do her homage.

It was not only Queen Victoria’s day, it was Great Britain’s day. Not only in London, where the great procession of representatives and soldiers from all the Colonies marched in honor of the gracious queen, but the services in honor of the day belted the globe. They began in the Colonies of New Zealand and Australia; afterward in South Africa; and so they followed the sun westward. When his light had crossed the ocean and reached the continent of America, the citizens of St. John’s, Newfoundland, recommenced the anthem which was taken up in succession, in town after town across the continent through Canada, from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The loyal dwellers at Victoria, British Columbia, tossed it across the Pacific, and on to India, throughout all the Colonies of the empire of the Union Jack.

It was a sublime and unparalleled occasion, and yet it is not too much to say that the most splendid and perhaps the most enduring souvenir of the Queen’s Jubilee was Rudyard Kipling’s poem – the Recessional. The editor of the London Times, in which journal it was first published, declares that it is the greatest poem of the century, and it is quite possible that such may be the verdict of the next generation.

This great poem came at the close of the Jubilee exercises and struck the world with a surprise. While Mr. Kipling has long been regarded as a great writer of fiction, and a strong poet, the deep note of strength, the undertone of volcanic earnestness, as well as the profound religious faith of the Recessional, were qualities which had not been attributed to Mr. Kipling by the majority of people. Yet, as Dr. George Horr, one of our brightest editors, has clearly set forth, Kipling, both as novelist and poet, has always portrayed the manly, strenuous side of life. He does not falter at putting before us ugly representations of vice, but beneath all the roughness and viciousness of men whom he describes, he reveals to us the real bedrock of genuine manliness. He never seeks to make us admire a cheat, a sneak, or a mountebank of any kind. Even in his most unconventional stories there is a Puritan strain in his temper, both in mental and moral quality, which holds him to the great essential moralities.

It is certainly appropriate that such a man should have eyes to see the profound religious side of the Queen’s Jubilee, for at the bottom, everything that is real, that is manly and heroic, is also religious. It is not to be marveled at that this keen student of human nature and of human history should have been able to perceive that “the far-flung battle line,” “the dominion over palm and pine,” “the tumult and the shouting,” “the captains and the kings,” and “the far-called navies” are only dust and ashes, unless God lives in the hearts and controls the character of those who wield these instruments; and that “the frantic boast,” and “the foolish word” may pull a national structure down upon the heads of a people drunken with their own power and riches. The sublime and solemn refrain of the poem, —

“Lest we forget – lest we forget,”

called back not only the British people in all parts of the world, but the conscience of all civilization, to the one abiding source of human power.

The fact that Kipling’s poem touched the heart of the English-speaking world as nothing else connected with the Jubilee did, is, as Doctor Horr states, “a profound testimony to the existence and dominance of the religious instinct in the Anglo-Saxon race. We have often been told that luxury, and pride, and gross materialism, have quenched the Puritan spirit. We have never believed that, though it has been hard sometimes to maintain the contrary against almost overwhelming evidence. But under the breath of a moral issue the smouldering fire has leaped into flame. The poet who elicits this temper, interprets it to itself, and gives it form and voice, renders a service to the higher interests of the race that can hardly be computed. Religion has not lost its hold when such lines as these are universally recognized as the noblest feature of the Jubilee: —

“If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not thee in awe;
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law —
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget – lest we forget!

“For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard —
All valiant dust that builds on dust,