The Death of The Gentle Lochiel
Dead is Lochiel, the terror of whose arms,
So lately shook this island with alarms.
Be just ye Whigs and though the Torries mourn,
Lament a Scotsman in a foreign urn,
Who, born a Chieftain, thought the right of birth,
The source of all authority on earth.
Mistaken as he was, the man was just,
Firm to his word and faithful to his trust,
He bade not others go, himself to stay,
As is the pretty, prudent modern way,
But, like a warrior, bravely drew his sword,
And raised his target for his native lord.
Humane he was, protected countries tell,
So rude a host was never ruled so well.
Fatal to him, and to the cause he loved
Was the rash turmult which his folly moved,
Compell'd for that to seek a foreign shore,
And ne'er behold his mother country no more,
Compell'd by hard necessity to bear,
In Gallia's hands a mercenary spear,
But Heaven, in pity to his honest heart,
Resolved to snatch him from so mean a part.
To cure at once his spirit and mind,
With exile wretched and with error blind,
The mighty mandate unto death was given,
And good Lochiel is now a Whig in heaven.
This poem was written by, and for, those sympathetic to the
Hanoverians. Nevertheless, it was about as close to
complimentary as one might wish for, from such a source.