Loudly then the hills re-echoed
    With our answer to his call,
  But a deeper echo sounded
    In the bosoms of us all. 
  For the lands of wide Breadalbane,
    Not a man who heard him speak
  Would that day have left the battle. 
    Burning eye and flushing cheek
  Told the clansmen’s fierce emotion,
    And they harder drew their breath;
  For their souls were strong within them,
    Stronger than the grasp of death. 
  Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet
    Sounding in the pass below,
  And the distant tramp of horses,
    And the voices of the foe: 
  Down we crouched amid the bracken,
    Till the Lowland ranks drew near,
  Panting like the hounds in summer,
    When they scent the stately deer. 
  From the dark defile emerging,
    Next we saw the squadrons come,
  Leslie’s foot and Leven’s troopers
    Marching to the tuck of drum;
  Through the scattered wood of birches,
    O’er the broken ground and heath,
  Wound the long battalion slowly,
    Till they gained the field beneath;
  Then we bounded from our covert.—­
    Judge how looked the Saxons then,
  When they saw the rugged mountain
    Start to life with armed men! 
  Like a tempest down the ridges,
    Swept the hurricane of steel,
  Rose the slogan of Macdonald—­
    Flashed the broadsword of Locheill! 
  Vainly sped the withering volley
    ’Mongst the foremost of our band—­
  On we poured until we met them,
    Foot to foot, and hand to hand. 
  Horse and man went down like drift-wood
    When the floods are black at Yule,
  And their carcasses are whirling
    In the Garry’s deepest pool. 
  Horse and man went down before us—­
    Living foe there tarried none
  On the field of Killiecrankie,
    When that stubborn fight was done!

  And the evening-star was shining
    On Schehallion’s distant head,
  When we wiped our bloody broadswords,
    And returned to count the dead. 
  There we found him, gashed and gory,
    Stretch’d upon the cumbered plain,
  As he told us where to seek him,
    In the thickest of the slain. 
  And a smile was on his visage,
    For within his dying ear
  Pealed the joyful note of triumph,
    And the clansmen’s clamorous cheer: 
  So, amidst the battle’s thunder,
    Shot, and steel, and scorching flame,
  In the glory of his manhood
    Passed the spirit of the Graeme! 
  Open wide the vaults of Athol,
    Where the bones of heroes rest—­
  Open wide the hallowed portals
    To receive another guest! 
  Last of Scots, and last of freemen—­
    Last of all that dauntless race
  Who would rather die unsullied
    Than outlive the land’s disgrace! 
  O thou lion-hearted warrior! 
    Reck not of the after-time: 
  Honour may be deemed dishonour,