And the thunder of the fight! 
  Strike, I say, the notes of triumph,
    As we march o’er moor and lea! 
  Is there any here will venture
    To bewail our dead Dundee? 
  Let the widows of the traitors
    Weep until their eyes are dim! 
  Wail ye may full well for Scotland—­
    Let none dare to mourn for him! 
  See! above his glorious body
    Lies the royal banner’s fold—­
  See! his valiant blood is mingled
    With its crimson and its gold. 
  See! how calm he looks and stately,
    Like a warrior on his shield,
  Waiting till the flush of morning
    Breaks along the battle-field! 
  See—­Oh never more, my comrades! 
    Shall we see that falcon eye
  Redden with its inward lightning,
    As the hour of fight drew nigh;
  Never shall we hear the voice that,
    Clearer than the trumpet’s call,
  Bade us strike for King and Country,
    Bade us win the field or fall! 
  On the heights of Killiecrankie
    Yester-morn our army lay: 
  Slowly rose the mist in columns
    From the river’s broken way;
  Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent,
    And the pass was wrapped in gloom,
  When the clansmen rose together
    From their lair amidst the broom. 
  Then we belted on our tartans,
    And our bonnets down we drew,
  And we felt our broadswords’ edges,
    And we proved them to be true;
  And we prayed the prayer of soldiers,
    And we cried the gathering-cry,
  And we clasped the hands of kinsmen,
    And we swore to do or die! 
  Then our leader rode before us
    On his war-horse black as night—­
  Well the Cameronian rebels
    Knew that charger in the fight!—­
  And a cry of exultation
    From the bearded warriors rose;
  For we loved the house of Claver’se,
    And we thought of good Montrose. 
  But he raised his hand for silence—­
    “Soldiers!  I have sworn a vow: 
  Ere the evening-star shall glisten
    On Schehallion’s lofty brow,
  Either we shall rest in triumph,
    Or another of the Graemes
  Shall have died in battle-harness
    For his Country and King James! 
  Think upon the Royal Martyr—­
    Think of what his race endure—­
  Think on him whom butchers murder’d
    On the field of Magus Muir:—­
  By his sacred blood I charge ye,
    By the ruin’d hearth and shrine—­
  By the blighted hopes of Scotland,
    By your injuries and mine—­
  Strike this day as if the anvil
    Lay beneath your blows the while,
  Be they Covenanting traitors,
    Or the brood of false Argyle! 
  Strike! and drive the trembling rebels
    Backwards o’er the stormy Forth;
  Let them tell their pale Convention
    How they fared within the North. 
  Let them tell that Highland honour
    Is not to be bought nor sold,
  That we scorn their Prince’s anger,
    As we loathe his foreign gold. 
  Strike! and when the fight is over,
    If ye look in vain for me,
  Where the dead are lying thickest,
    Search for him that was Dundee!”