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captainsblogTwo hours until they start releasing results. All pundits are clinging to their sides. I voted, but I'm going to have a hard time watching the outcome.
So instead, I'll earworm my brain with the actual original lyrics to the song that will be played for one of these men tonight. There are some wussy recreations of them by Some Dude that are never sung, but the real words to "Hail to the Chief" were written by Sir Walter Scott as part of an epic poem The Lady of the Lake and were then set to the now well-known tune by British songwriter James Sanderson in 1812. As in the year they were burning down our capital:
Hail to the chief, who in triumph advances,
Honour'd and blest be the evergreen pine!
Long may the tree in his banner that glances,
Flourish the shelter and grace of our line.
Heaven send it happy dew,
Earth lend it sap anew,
Gaily to bourgeon and broadly to grow;
While every highland glen,
Sends our shout back agen,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho! i-e-roe!"
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;
When the whirlwind has stript every leaf on the mountain,
The more shall Clan Alpine exult in her shade.
Moor'd in the lifted rock,
Proof to the tempest's shock,
Firmer he roots him, the ruder it blow:
Menteith and Breadalbane, then,
Echo his praise agen,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho! i-e-roe!"
Proudly our pibroch has thrill'd in Glen Fruin,
And Blanochar's groans to our slogan replied,
Glen Luss and Ross Dhu, they are smoking in ruin,
And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on our side.
Widow and Saxon maid,
long shall lament our rade,
Think of Clan Alpine with fear and with wo.
Lenox and Levon Glen,
Shake when they hear agen
"Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho! i-e-roe!"
Row, vassals, row for the pride of the Highlands!
Stretch to your oars for the evergreen pine!
O, that the rosebud that graces yon islands,
Were wreath'd in a garland around him to twine.
O, that some seedling gem,
Worthy such noble stem,
Honour'd and blest in their shadow might grow;
Loud should Clan Alpine then,
Ring from her deepmost glen,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho! i-e-roe!"
And not even a single bayonet, or binder full of watery tarts, in the whole thing. I take that as a good sign.
So instead, I'll earworm my brain with the actual original lyrics to the song that will be played for one of these men tonight. There are some wussy recreations of them by Some Dude that are never sung, but the real words to "Hail to the Chief" were written by Sir Walter Scott as part of an epic poem The Lady of the Lake and were then set to the now well-known tune by British songwriter James Sanderson in 1812. As in the year they were burning down our capital:
Hail to the chief, who in triumph advances,
Honour'd and blest be the evergreen pine!
Long may the tree in his banner that glances,
Flourish the shelter and grace of our line.
Heaven send it happy dew,
Earth lend it sap anew,
Gaily to bourgeon and broadly to grow;
While every highland glen,
Sends our shout back agen,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho! i-e-roe!"
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;
When the whirlwind has stript every leaf on the mountain,
The more shall Clan Alpine exult in her shade.
Moor'd in the lifted rock,
Proof to the tempest's shock,
Firmer he roots him, the ruder it blow:
Menteith and Breadalbane, then,
Echo his praise agen,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho! i-e-roe!"
Proudly our pibroch has thrill'd in Glen Fruin,
And Blanochar's groans to our slogan replied,
Glen Luss and Ross Dhu, they are smoking in ruin,
And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on our side.
Widow and Saxon maid,
long shall lament our rade,
Think of Clan Alpine with fear and with wo.
Lenox and Levon Glen,
Shake when they hear agen
"Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho! i-e-roe!"
Row, vassals, row for the pride of the Highlands!
Stretch to your oars for the evergreen pine!
O, that the rosebud that graces yon islands,
Were wreath'd in a garland around him to twine.
O, that some seedling gem,
Worthy such noble stem,
Honour'd and blest in their shadow might grow;
Loud should Clan Alpine then,
Ring from her deepmost glen,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho! i-e-roe!"
And not even a single bayonet, or binder full of watery tarts, in the whole thing. I take that as a good sign.