TAKE away that star and garter— | |
| Hide them from my aching sight: | |
| Neither king nor prince shall tempt me | |
| From my lonely room this night; | |
| Fitting for the throneless exile | 5 |
| Is the atmosphere of pall, | |
| And the gusty winds that shiver | |
| ’Neath the tapestry on the wall. | |
| When the taper faintly dwindles | |
| Like the pulse within the vein, | 10 |
| That to gay and merry measure | |
| Ne’er may hope to bound again, | |
| Let the shadows gather round me | |
| While I sit in silence here, | |
| Broken-hearted, as an orphan | 15 |
| Watching by his father’s bier. | |
| Let me hold my still communion | |
| Far from every earthly sound— | |
| Day of penance—day of passion— | |
| Ever, as the year comes round: | 20 |
| Fatal day, whereon the latest | |
| Die was cast for me and mine— | |
| Cruel day, that quelled the fortunes | |
| Of the hapless Stuart line! | |
| Phantom-like, as in a mirror, | 25 |
| Rise the grisly scenes of death— | |
| There before me, in its wildness, | |
| Stretches bare Culloden’s heath: | |
| There the broken clans are scattered, | |
| Gaunt as wolves, and famine-eyed, | 30 |
| Hunger gnawing at their vitals, | |
| Hope abandoned, all but pride— | |
| Pride, and that supreme devotion | |
| Which the Southron never knew, | |
| And the hatred, deeply rankling, | 35 |
| ’Gainst the Hanoverian crew. | |
| Oh, my God! are these the remnants, | |
| These the wrecks of the array | |
| That around the royal standard | |
| Gathered on the glorious day, | 40 |
| When, in deep Glenfinnan’s valley, | |
| Thousands, on their bended knees, | |
| Saw once more that stately ensign | |
| Waving in the northern breeze, | |
| When the noble Tullibardine | 45 |
| Stood beneath its weltering fold, | |
| With the Ruddy Lion ramping | |
| In the field of treasured gold, | |
| When the mighty heart of Scotland, | |
| All too big to slumber more, | 50 |
| Burst in wrath and exultation, | |
| Like a huge volcano’s roar? | |
| There they stand, the battered columns, | |
| Underneath the murky sky, | |
| In the hush of desperation, | 55 |
| Not to conquer, but to die. | |
| Hark! the bagpipe’s fitful wailing: | |
| Not the pibroch loud and shrill, | |
| That, with hope of bloody banquet, | |
| Lured the ravens from the hill, | 60 |
| But a dirge both low and solemn, | |
| Fit for ears of dying men, | |
| Marshalled for their latest battle, | |
| Never more to fight again. | |
| Madness—madness! Why this shrinking? | 65 |
| Were we less inured to war | |
| When our reapers swept the harvest | |
| From the field of red Dunbar? | |
| Bring my horse, and blow the trumpet! | |
| Call the riders of Fitz-James: | 70 |
| Let Lord Lewis head the column! | |
| Valiant chiefs of mighty names— | |
| Trusty Keppoch, stout Glengarry, | |
| Gallant Gordon, wise Lochiel— | |
| Bid the clansmen hold together, | 75 |
| Fast, and fell, and firm as steel. | |
| Elcho, never look so gloomy— | |
| What avails a saddened brow? | |
| Heart, man, heart! we need it sorely, | |
| Never half so much as now. | 80 |
| Had we but a thousand troopers, | |
| Had we but a thousand more! | |
| Noble Perth, I hear them coming!— | |
| Hark! the English cannons’ roar. | |
| God! how awful sounds that volley, | 85 |
| Bellowing through the mist and rain! | |
| Was not that the Highland slogan? | |
| Let me hear that shout again! | |
| Oh, for prophet eyes to witness | |
| How the desperate battle goes! | 90 |
| Cumberland! I would not fear thee, | |
| Could my Camerons see their foes. | |
| Sound, I say, the charge at venture— | |
| ’Tis not naked steel we fear; | |
| Better perish in the mêlée | 95 |
| Than be shot like driven deer; | |
| Hold! the mist begins to scatter! | |
| There in front ’tis rent asunder, | |
| And the cloudy bastion crumbles | |
| Underneath the deafening thunder; | 100 |
| There I see the scarlet gleaming! | |
| Now, Macdonald—now or never!— | |
| Woe is me, the clans are broken! | |
| Father, thou are lost for ever! | |
| Chief and vassal, lord and yeoman, | 105 |
| There they lie in heaps together, | |
| Smitten by the deadly volley, | |
| Rolled in blood upon the heather; | |
| And the Hanoverian horsemen, | |
| Fiercely riding to and fro, | 110 |
| Deal their murderous strokes at random— | |
| Ah, my God! where am I now? | |
| |
