| |
| CULLODEN, on thy swarthy brow | |
| Spring no wild-flowers 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, | 5 |
| And war’s unhallowed footsteps bore; | |
| Thy deeds unholy nature viewed, | |
| Then fled, and cursed thee evermore. | |
| |
| From Beauly’s wild and woodland glens, | |
| How proudly Lovat’s banners soar! | 10 |
| How fierce the plaided Highland clans | |
| Rush onward with the broad claymore! | |
| Those hearts that high with honor heave, | |
| The volleying thunder there laid low; | |
| Or scattered like the forest leaves, | 15 |
| When wintry winds begin to blow! | |
| |
| Where now thy honors, brave Lochiel? | |
| The braided plumes torn from thy brow, | |
| What must thy haughty spirit feel, | |
| When skulking like the mountain roe! | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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 feel, | |
| My dear, my injured native land, | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| 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. | 40 |
| |
| “Shades of the mighty and the brave, | |
| Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell! | |
| No trophies mark your common grave, | |
| Nor dirges to your memory swell. | |
| But generous hearts will weep your fate, | 45 |
| When far has rolled the tide of time; | |
| And bards unborn shall renovate | |
| Your fading fame in loftiest rhyme.” | |
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