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 gather’d on the glorious day,
    When, in deep Glenfinnart’s valley, thousands, on their bended knees,
    Saw once more that stately banner waving in the northern breeze,
    When the noble Tullibardine stood beneath its weltering fold,
    With the ruddy lion ramping in the field of treasured 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 batter’d 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,
    Marshall’d 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? 
    Fetch my horse, and blow the trumpet!—­Call the riders of Fitz-James,
    Let Lord Lewis bring the muster!—­Valiant chiefs of mighty names—­
    Trusty Keppoch! stout Glengarry! gallant Gordon! wise Lochiel! 
    Bid the clansmen charge together, fast, and fell, and firm as steel. 
    Elcho, never look so gloomy!  What avails a sadden’d brow? 
    Heart, man—­heart! we need it sorely—­never half so much as now. 
    Had we but a thousand troopers—­had we but a thousand more!——­
    Noble Perth, I hear them coming!—­Hark! the English cannons’ roar. 
    God! how awful sounds that volley, bellowing through the mist and rain! 
    Was not that the Highland slogan?  Let me hear that shout again! 
    Oh, for prophet eyes to witness how the desperate battle goes! 
    Cumberland!  I would not fear thee, could my Camerons see their foe. 
    Sound, I say, the charge at venture—­t’is not naked steel we fear;
    Better perish in the melee than be shot like driven deer! 
    Hold! the mist begins to scatter.  There in front ’tis rent asunder,
    And the cloudy battery crumbles underneath the deafening thunder;
    There I see the scarlet gleaming!  Now, Macdonald—­now or never!—­
    Woe is me, the clans are broken!  Father, thou art lost for ever! 
    Chief and vassal, lord and yeoman, there they lie in heaps together,
    Smitten by the deadly volley, rolled in blood upon the heather;
    And the Hanoverian horsemen, fiercely riding to and fro,
    Deal their murderous strokes at random.—­
                  Ah my God! where am I now? 
    Will that baleful vision never vanish from my aching sight? 
    Must those scenes and sounds of terror haunt me still by day and night?