Culloden, on the swarthy brow
Spring no wild flow'rs nor verdure fair:
Thou feel'st not summer's genial glow,
More than the freezing wintry air;
For once thou drank'st the hero's blood,
And war's unhallow'd footsteps bore.
The deeds unholy nature view'd,
Then fled, and curs'd thee evermore.
From Beauly's wild and woodland
glens,
How proudly Lovat's banners soar!
How fierce the plaided Highland clans
Rush onward with the broad claymore!
Those hearts that high with honour heaved,
The volleying thunder there laid low!
Or scattered like the forest leaves,
When wintry winds begin to blow!
Where now thy honours, brave
Lochiel!
The braided plume's torn from thy brow.
What must thy haughty spirit feel,
When skulking like the mountain roe!
While wild-birds chant from Lochy's bowers,
On April eve, their loves and joys;
The Lord of Lochy's loftiest towers,
To foreign lands an exile flies.
To his blue hills that rose in
view,
As o'er the deep his galley bore,
He often looked, and cried, "Adieu!
"I'll never see Lochaber more!
"Though now thy wounds I cannot heal,
"My dear, my injured native land!
"In other climes thy foe shall feel
"The weight of Cameron's deadly brand.
"Land of proud hearts and
mountains gray!
"Where Fingal fought and Ossian sung!
"Mourn dark Culloden's fateful day,
"That from thy chiefs the laurel wrung.
"Where once they ruled and roamed at will,
"Free as their own dark mountain game;
"Their sons are slaves, yet keenly feel
"A longing for their father's fame.
"Shades of the mighty and
the brave,
"Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell;
"No trophies mark your common grave,
"Nor dirges to your mem'ry swell!
"But generous hearts will weep your fate,
"When far has rolled the tide of time;
"And bards unborn shall renovate
"Your fading fame in loftiest rhyme!" |
