Classic Poem

The serfs of the Tsar know not pity nor mercy,
And many a turban is roll'd on the plain;
Like dust the poor sons of the prophet are trampled,
And, Allah, il Allah! they'll shout not again.

Sir Colin! Sir Colin! why stand ye thus idle?
Yon dark mounted masses shall trample thee o'er;
Sir Colin! Sir Colin! thy moments are number'd—
The hills of Glenorchy shall know thee no more.

Why wakes not the pibroch thy fathers have sounded,
Which roused up the clansmen in battles of yore?
Till downward they swept, like the tempests of Avin,
Or demons all dashing with dirk and claymore?

Thy band shall be hack'd like the stripes of the tartan:
McDonald! McDermid! to glory, adieu!
Gregalich! Gregalich! the shade of thy hero
May blush for his sons, by his own Avon Dhu.

Hush! hark! 'tis the pipes playing “Hollen MacGaradh,”
The spirit of Fingal at last has awoke—
Yet motionless all, as the giant Craig Ailsa—
While the foam-crested billows rush on to the shock.

The horsemen of Russia roll nearer and nearer,
Now slacken a moment, now sweep to the shock;
One terrible flash—'tis the lightning of Albin!
One peal, and the tartans are hid in the smoke.

Now Duncan! now Donald! the mettle you're made of,
In this awful moment, oh, may it prove true!
Be thy spirit as firm as the rocks of Saint Kilda,
Thy swoop like the eagles of dark Benvenue.

It is not the deer ye have met on the heather—
That is not thine own Corrybrechtan's loud roar!
Triumphant emerge from that dark cloud of thunder,
Or die, and behold the red heather no more.

The cloud clears away—'tis the horsemen are flying!
All scattered like chaff by the might of the Gael;
One long yell of triumph, while bonnets are waving,
And “Scotland forever!” resounds through the dale.