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But half of our heavy task was done,
When the bell tolled the hour for retiring, And we knew by the distant, random gun,
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we lai him down,
From the field of his fame, fresh and gory ! We carved not line, we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory!
THEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Counsel of her country's gods,
Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Full of rage and full of grief.
« Princess ! if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, "Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.
“Rome shall perish—write that word
In the blood that she has spilt ;
Deep in ruin as in guilt.
'Rome, for empire far renowned,
Tramples on a thousand states ;
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates !
“Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier's name;
Harmony the path to fame.
“ Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land,
Shall a wider world command.
Thy posterity shall sway ;
None invincible as they.”
Such the Bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Of his sweet but awful lyre.
Felt them in her bosom glow :
Dying, hurled them at the foe.
“Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heaven awards the vengeance due ;
LCHIEL, Lochiel ! beware of the day
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight.
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown,
Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer !
Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ?
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
LOCHIEL. False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan: Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one. They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, All plaided and plumed in their tartan array
-Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day !
LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
His death-bell is tolling: Oh! mercy, dispel
LOCHIEL. -Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale ! For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat! Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-hed of fame!
Lord Ullin's Daughter.
CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
To row us o'er the ferry."
“Now who be ye, would cross Luchgyle,
This dark and stormy water?” “O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.