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Although we feel the bitter dart,
Most keenly rankling in the heart,

By some dark ingrate driven;
In us revenge must never burn,
We pity, pardon, then we turn,

And rest our souls in heaven.

'Tis thou, O Lord! who shield'st my head,
And draw'st thy curtains round my bed,
I sleep secure in thee;
And O! may soon that time arrive,
When we before thy face shall live
Through all eternity.

THE COVENANTERS.

Far up the hills, amidst some lonely glen,
They met, the brave and persecuted men!
A holy remnant of the just and true,
Sworn to that faith which tyrants never knew:
Hunted from house and home, they gather'd there
To offer up to Heaven their earnest prayer;
They knelt around, while one, with lifted hand,
Invoked a blessing on that martyr band.
Then rose they up, and sang with one accord,
Their sweet and simple anthems to the Lord;
Till the far shepherd on the mountain's brow,
Who heard the notes arise so faint and low,
Might deem in such a place, that holy hymn
Was raised and chanted by the seraphim!
They went to battle-not as armies go,
Who blindly smite an unoffending foe;
Forth to a glorious field they march'd unaw'd,
The chosen champions of the living God:

They fought and triumph'd, as the good and just,
Who fight in such a cause, for ever must.
And thus, of yore, have Scotland's patriots rose,
And bravely overcame their banded foes.

Ged dh'fhuilgeas sinne goimh a's tàir,
A ni ar claoidh gu goirt 's ar cràdh,
Bho nàmhaid guineach, geur;
'N ar cridh' cha toir do ghamhlas àit',
Ach maithidh sinn gu saor 's gach càs,
'S gheibh fois an àird leat féin.

Is tusa, 'Thriath, mo sgiath a'm' fheum,
'S tu chuir brat-sgàil mu'n cuairt domh féin,
'S a bheir dhomh fois o m' sgìos;

A's gu mu luath a thig an là

'S an nochdar sinn leat féin gu h-àrd
An aoibhneas tha gun chrìoch.

NA CUMHNANTAICH.

Na daoine dìleas, sàraichte, 's fo bhròn,
Chòmhlaich gu tric am measg nam beann 's nam fròg!
Am fuigheal beag bha firinneach 's gach càs,
'S a bhòidich fòs nach strìochdadh iad gu bràth :
Ruaigte o'n dachaidh chruinnich iad an céin,
A chum an athchuinge chur suas gu nèamh;
Shleuchd iad mu'n cuairt, a's dh'asluich aon do'n treud
Gu'n dìonadh Dia iad o gach olc a's beud.
Dh'éirich iad suas an sin a's sheinn gu h-àrd
An laoidhean binne fòs do Dhia nan gràs;
An ciobair siùbhlach shuas am measg nam beann,
Le ioghnadh dh'éisd e ris a' cheòl ro bhinn,
An laoidh bu choltach i ri ceòl nan nèamh,
A thogadh aingle naomh a suas gu sèimh!
Gu cogadh chaidh, gidheadh cha b'ann le sannt,
'Nan doille 'bualadh sìos an naimhdean fann;
Ach gus an àrfhaich dh'fhalbh gun sgàth, gun fhiamh,
Mar ghaisgich thaghte 'tabhairt glòir do Dhia:
Chòmhraig a's bhuadhaich iad mar ni gach aon,
A théid am mach le ceartas air an taobh.
Mar so rinn gaisgich Alba gleachd o chian,
'S gu fearail cheannsaich iad an naimhdean dian

LOVE OF COUNTRY.

Breathes there a man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

"This is my own, my native land!" Whose heart has ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned,

From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell:
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.
O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band,

That knits me to thy rugged strand!

LOCHIEL'S WARNING.

Wizard.-Lochiel! 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;
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far!
"Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch fire, all night at the gate.

GAOL DUTHCHA.

'Bheil neach air bith, 's an deò na chré,
Cho fuar 's nach tuirt e riamh ris féin,
"Mo dhùthaich chaomh d'an tug mi gaol!"
Aon nach do las a chridh' na chom,
Dhachaidh 'n uair ghluais le ceum neo-throm,
Bho ànradh cianail feadh an t-saogh'il!
Ma tha rach 's beachdaich air gu dlùth,
Ri laoidh no ceòl cha tog e shùil:
Ged bhiodh e àrd an ainm 's an inbh',
'S a mhaoin cho mòr 'sa dh'iarradh miann;
A dh'aindeoin 'airgid, 'ainm a's òir,
'Se'n t-ùmaidh truagh bhios ann r'a bheò,
Cha'n fhaigh e meas, no miagh, no cliù,
'S'n uair thig am bàs théid sìos do'n ùir,
Gun chuimhn' no iomradh air am feasd,
'S cha chaoidhear air a shon gun cheisd.

O! Albuinn chaomh, nan stùc, 's nan càrn!
A mhuime dh'àraicheas na bàird!

A thir a' bharraich a's an fhraoich,

A thìr nam beann, nan tuil', 's nan craobh,
Tir mo shinnsear'! tìr nan sàr,

Cò dh'fhuasglas an ceangal gràidh,
Ri d' thràigh a dh'aonas mi

gu

bràth!

RABHADH LOCHIALL.

Fiosaiche.-A Lochiall! a Lochiall! bi t' fhaicill roi'n la,
Anns an còmhlaich na Gaill thu 'an suidheachadh blair!
Ann am shealladh tha'n àrfhaich le dearg fhuil nan laoch,
Air monadh Chùilfhodair 's iad sgapta gach taobh.
Thug iad ionnsuidh ged dh'fhàilnich air buannachd an cóir;
Marbh-thaisg air a' mharc-shluagh a shaltras na seòid!
Tha Cumberland uaibhreach 'toirt tàmailt a's tàir,
Do'n laochraidh neo-mheata tha pronnta gu lår.
Ach éisd! Ciod an steud 'tha le luathas na gaoith
Troi'n deathach 's troi'n lasair a' ruith chun an fhraoich?
'S e do steud-sa, 'Ghlinnuillinn, tha do chéile fo chràdh,
A' sealltuinn ri d' thighinn ; ach cha tig thu gu bràth.

A steed comes at morning: no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albyn! to death and captivity led!
Oh! weep, but thy tears cannot number the dead :
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave-
Culloden! that weeps with the blood of the brave.

Lochiel-Go, preach to the coward, thou death telling seer! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,

Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight,

This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

Wizard.-Ha! laughest thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?

Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!

Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth,

From his home in the dark rolling clouds of the north?
Lo! the death shot of foeman outspeeding he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high,
Ah! home let him speed for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast
Those embers like stars from the firmament cast?
'Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
Oh, crested Lochiel, the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlement's height,
Heav'n's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn;
Return to thy dwelling, all lonely return!

For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,

And a wild mother's scream o'er her famishing brood.

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 the wave on a rock;
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause,
When Albyn her claymore indignantly draws;
When her bonnetted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud,
All plaided and plum'd in their tartan array-

Wizard.-Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day,
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
But man cannot cover what God will reveal;
'Tis the sun-set of life gives me mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadows before.
I tell thee Culloden's dread echoes shall ring,
With the blood-hounds that bark for their fugitive king

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