Classic Poem

(Clanranald Pibroch)

There's flesh in the glen for ye, raven and eagle,
There's fire in the thatch, and there's death in the corn;
We fed on hot fury, for you the cold leavings,
Why starve ye in Moidart when plenty's in Lorn?
Come from your mountains and sup in Glenorchy,
Where's left but the sound of the wind and the burn —
There's nothing to scare ye, dark birds of Clanranald —
The Campbells are gone and they'll never return!

God's name! they provoked us, the crook-mouthed, the cunning!
Sitting so pious and snug in their holds,
Their eyes shut in prayer till the fat rings rolled o'er them,
A blame and a boast in each bleat from their folds.
'Twas not that they spoiled us by sword or by sheepskin,
Not that they harried or lifted our kine, —
They passed us at market like dirt from the lowlands,
O children of Diarmaid! O litter of swine!

The foumart and fox they will suffer no taming,
The twist in the pine-tree can never be healed;
For vermin the gun, then, for crook-wood the hatchet,
Search ye, my gallant birds, where they're concealed.
Look in the corn where they're lying like divots; —
We were of old when the sea-wave was fresh; —
Cruachan will crumble but never Clanranald,
Grey birds of Moidart, oh come and get flesh!