Friend of the brave! in peril's darkest hour,
Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power;
To thee the heart its trembling homage yields,
On stormy floods, and carnage-cover'd fields,
When front to front the banner'd hosts combine,
Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line.
When all is still on Death's devoted soil,
The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil!
As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high
The dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye,
Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come,
And hears thy stormy music in the drum!
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumph'd-his people are free!
Sing for the pride of the tyrant is broken,
His chariots, his horsemen; all splendid and brave,
How vain was their boasting! the Lord hath but spoken,
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumph'd-his people are free!
Praise to the Conqueror, Praise to the Lord,
His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword!
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story
Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of glory,
And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumph'd-his people are free!
Cultaic' a' ghaisgich anns gach airc a's teinn, Tha 'n Treun nach meat' a' cur a neirt 'n ad mhèin ; 'S an crìdh' air bhall-chrith 'deanadh earbs' ad chàil, Measg thuiltibh borb' 's air raontaibh dearg le h-àr, 'N uair ghluaiseas feachd nam bratach as gach làimh, Mu'n dlùthaich suinn an strìth nan lann le gàir. 'N uair bhios gach fuaim 'n an suain air faich' a' bhàis, Ni'n gaisgeach sgìth grad dhiol air gniomh gun spàirn. Mar 'sheinneas fheadan dealrach éiridh suas
A ghnùis gun fhiamh,—a shùil 'sa mhiann 'na snuadh, 'Na chòm 'cur fàilt' air buaidh a ta ri teachd,
'S e 'cluinntinn toirm do ghuth 'an druma 'n fheachd!
Seinn tiomban ard-fhuaimneach thar cuan glas na h-Eiphit!
Iehobhah thug buaidh-shaor e'n sluagh a thug géill da!
Seinn-oir thuit ardan an nàmhaid 'chum smachd oirnn,
'S a charbaid, 's a mharc-shluagh, bu mhaiseach air fonn.
B'fhaoin 'uaill as an gniomh; cha tuirt Dia ach am facal,
'S bha'charbaid 'sa mharc-shluagh'g an casgradh 'san tonn.
Seinn tiomban ard-fhuaimneach thar cuan glas na h-Eiphit!
Iehobhah thug buaidh-shaor e'n sluagh a thug géill da!
Gu'm molar am Buadhach-gu'm molar an Triath,
B'e 'fhacal ar saighead, b'e anail ar sgiath!
Co 'thilleas do'n Eiphit 'thoirt sgéil air a bhuidhinn,
A chuir i 'n an uidheam gu siubhal 'san tòir?
'N uair dh'amhairc ar Triath as a nial air a cumhachd,
'San fhairge le sruthaibh gu'n do shlugadh a slòigh.
Seinn tiomban ard-fhuaimneach thar cuan glas na h-Eiphit!
Iehobhah thug buaidh-shaor e 'n sluagh a thug géill da!
See how rude winter's icy hand
Has strip'd the trees, and seal'd the ground, But spring shall soon his rage withstand, And spread new beauties all around.
My soul a sharper winter mourns,
Barren and fruitless I remain;
When will the gentle spring return,
And bid my graces grow again?
Jesus, my glorious Sun, arise!
Tis thine the frozen heart to move;
Oh! hush these storms, and clear my skies,
And let me feel thy vital love.
Dear, Lord, regard my feeble cry,
I faint and droop till thou appear;
Wilt thou permit thy plant to die?
Must it be winter all the year?
Be still, my soul, and wait his hour,
With humble prayer and patient faith;
Till he reveals his gracious power,
Repose on what his promise saith.
When captive Israel sat and wept
Beside the stream whose waters swept
By Babel's lofty walls;
Well might sad tears her cheeks bedew,
As vivid memory called to view
Fair Salem's ruined halls.
She mourned Jehovah's prostrate fane,
Where incense erst, and victims slain,
His rising anger stayed;
Seall mar lòm an geamhradh fuar
A' choill, 's mar chuir e 'm fonn fo ghlais;
Ach thig a chlisg' an t-earrach nuadh,
'S bheir àilleachd do gach ni air ais.
Tha mise a' bròn fo gheamhradh 's cruaidh',
Cha tig duil' uaine orm no blàth;
O! cuin 'thig orms' an t-earrach nuadh,
A thoirt dhomh fàs as ùr 'an gràs?
Iosa, seall orm! 's tu mo ghrian,
'S tu ni'n cridhe reòta tlàth;
Ciùinich an stoirm tha ormsa 'g ia’dh,
A's tearuinn mi fo sgàil do ghràidh.
A Thighearn, éisd ri m' ghearan lag,
Tha fadal orm thu 'theachd a làth'ir;
An geamhradh dhòmhsa 'bhliadhn' air fad?
Am fuiling thu do d' lus dol bàs?
Bi sàmhach, m' anam, 's feith r'a uair,
Le ùrnuigh bhuan a's creidimh beò;
A ghràs gu'n taom e ort a nuas,
'S na ghealladh biodh a ghnàth do dhòigh.
Na h-Iudhaich 'n uair a ghuil o chian
Ri taobh nan sruth tha 'ruith gu dian
Seach callaid Bhabiloin;
An deòir cha b' ioghnadh 'ruith gun tàmh,
'N uair chuimhnich iad an aitreabh àigh,
Bhi nis 'na làraich luim.
Fo thùrsa bha mu theampull Dhé, 'S an tric a thairgeadh ìobairt réit' Gu casg 'chur air a ghruaim;
His altars now no longer smoked,
Nor Aaron's sons with prayer invoked
His blessing and his aid.
While pagan taunts each bosom wrung,
Well might their harps remain unstrung
On that ill-omened day;
Well might their tongues refuse to sing
The sacred songs of Sion's King,
And chant a festive lay.
'Tis thus that, haply doomed to roam,
A weary wanderer from his home
In Britain's favoured isle,
Laments, with tears of sad regret,
The by-gone days, whose sun has set
Since fortune ceased to smile.
He sees the churchyard's hallow'd sod,
He sees the temple of his God
By idol rites defiled;
And sighs for that loved house of prayer
Where Christ alone presides, and where
He worshipped when a child.
So likewise in the world we see
A Babylon of misery,
Where, captive-led by sin,
The true-born sons of Israel's race
Travail and groan for inward grace
Redemption's price to win,
Here no abiding city waits,
No safe asylum opes her gates
To bid them welcome home:
Strangers and pilgrims here below,
No present resting-place they know,
But seek for one to come.
Oh! when shall I, a pilgrim too,
Thy heaven-built towers, fair Salem, view,-
Bright mansions of the blest?
How gladly will I hail the day.
Which calls my ransomed soul away,
And leads me to my rest!
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