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
    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,
  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
    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;
  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,
    Rise the griesly 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,
  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,
    ’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,
  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
    Stood beneath its weltering fold,
  With the Ruddy Lion ramping
    In the field of tressured gold,
  When the mighty heart of Scotland,
    All too big to slumber more,
  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,
    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,
  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? 
    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: 
  Let Lord Lewis head the column! 
    Valiant chiefs of mighty names—­
  Trusty Keppoch, stout Glengarry,
    Gallant Gordon, wise Locheill—­
  Bid the clansmen hold together,
    Fast, and fell, and firm as steel. 
  Elcho, never look so gloomy—­