THE HAMILTON ASSOCIATION. 65 
Then none was for a party ; 
Then all were for the state ; 
Then the great man helped the poor, 
And the poor man loved the great ; 
Then lands were fairly portioned ; 
Then spoils were fairly sold ; 
The Romans were like brothers 
In the brave days of old.” 
The end of the lay is as well known as its beginning. In 
stirring verse the exploits of Horatius are sung. We are made 
eye-witnesses of his bravery at the bridge ; his plunge into the 
Tiber, and escape; the gratitude of his country, and the statue in 
his honor : 
‘** And still his name sounds stirzing, ~ 
Unto the men of Rome, 
As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 
To charge the Volscian home ; 
And wives still pray to Juno 
For boys with hearts as bold, 
As his who kept the bridge so well 
In the brave days of old.” 
But it was no marvel that he, who at twenty-four could write the 
“Battle of Ivry,” should at forty-two write the “Lays of Ancient 
Rome.” The Huguenot song of triumph was recognized as a prom- 
ise of greater things to come, and rightly so, for its opening verse 1s 
an outburst of exultation which strikes the heart as does an opening 
chorus from some great tone master : 
‘‘ Now glory to the Lord of Hosts from whom all glories are ! 
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre ! 
Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, 
Through thy corn fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! 
And thou Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, 
Again let rapture light the eyes «f all thy mourning daughters. 
As thou wert constant in our iJls be joyous in our joys, 
For coid and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy, 
Hurrah! Hurrah! a single eld hath turned the chance of war, 
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Ivry and Henry of Navarre.” 
A plaintive tenderness is the crowning glory of many Scottish 
ballads: they are as sad as music ina minor key. Of that class, 
“Waly, Waly,” a ballad of about the middle of XVI century, is a good 
example : 
“O Waly, Waly, up the bank, 
O Waly, Waly, down the brae, 
And Waly, Waly, yon burn-side, 
Where I and my love were wont to gae ! 
I lean’d my back unto an aik, 
I thocht it was a trustie tree, 
But first it bow’d and syne it brak’,— 
Sae my true love did lichtlie me. 
