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!

          II

     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,
     As 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 warrior 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 murdered
       On the field of Magus Muir[1]: 
     By his sacred blood I charge ye,
       By the ruined 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 blood 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 honor
       Is not to be bought nor sold;