Classic Poem

Up in the North there is fire and sword —
Up there where the red heather burns!
Up in the North where the Gael should be lord,
The heel of the Sasunnach turns.

Up in the North 'mid the gloom of the Bens
And deep in the rushing flood,
Shades of the Gael proclaim to the glens
That freedom is born but in blood.

Up there in the night there is grieving at heart
When the souls of the heroes draw near,
Wide-eyed, with hungering glances that dart
In search of the things that were dear.

But never the flaunt of a tartan plaid ,
Nor the flash of a broadsword keen —
Never a Chief like the eagle arrayed —
Brings light to their ghostly eyen.

But there 's fire and sword in the hearts of the men
And hate at the mother's breast,
With a curse on the chiefs that bartered the Glen
And the rights never theirs to divest.

Oh the land of the Gael is a wildering waste —
The place of his hearth is no more;
His plenty in exile is bitter of taste —
And no beauty endears a far shore .

But vengeance they say is the will of the LORD —
And his vengeance is sure if slow.
Where the hearts of a people breed fire and sword,
The hand of the LORD must sow.