Classic Poem

Ohone a rie! O hone a rie!
Alas, great Cailen lieth now
Like stricken pine in Inverie!
The galley waits by lone Lochow
To bear where Kilmun's sleep beguiles
The mighty chieftain of the isles.

He sleeps where glen and mountain blur,
And Caledoma rocks her pine;
Who, long and faithful, leal to her,
Great daughter of his royal line,
And true to Empire's noblest cause,
Moulded her wisdom in her laws.

And o'er the doorways of his rest
The sign of lineal glory stands,
The galley of his ancient West,
To bear his soul to loftier lands,
Those isles of Scotland's mighty soul
And splendors of her spirit's goal.

There he will sleep in lordly dream
Until the last dread pibroch wakes
The centuried hush of glen and stream,
And far by misted hills and lakes,
Each plaided warrior grimly stands
At God's dread gathering of the clans.

There let him dream, as through his sleep,
Like mists that sweep by Ben Lui,
Or surge of Jura's mighty deep,
The armies of the years go by,
In myriad visions of that vast
Of Scotland's splendor, Scotland's past.

Old sounds of far-heard battle call,
Or mountain-misted shieling song,
Or warder's call from castle wall
Of right's high challenge unto wrong;
Or that old fealty, man to man,
Of feudal chief and faithful clan.

Dreams he once more the mighty years
Of mailèd targe and ringing shield,
Of Scotland's sorrow, Scotland's tears,
For those of fatal Flodden's field;
When 'mid mad wreck of Lord and Crown
All else save honor thundered down.

Or those old struggles for the right,
'Mid conquering truth and ancient wrong,
When Scotland, in her iron might,
Led forth her bannered hosts along,
In that unconquered spirit, stern,
Of Douglas, Bruce and Bannockburn.

O hone a rie! O hone a rie!
Like mountain mist or drifted snow,
Through years of Scotland's dream and dree,
The glories of her great dead go:—
And grief's sad pibroch moans full sore
The memories of McCailen More.

Aye, stilled for aye the mighty brain,
And hushed for aye the magic tongue,
Whose lofty accents ne'er again
Will thrill Westminster's Halls among;
When, first of Britain's barons, he
Spoke brave for truth and liberty.

O hone a rie! O hone a rie!
No more the chieftain's eye shall glow,
Hushed is his spirit's minstrelsy;
The mighty fighter lieth low,
Who served his country, served his clan,
And fought to free his brother man.

And we his kinsmen severed wide,
Proud heirs of mighty O'Duin's fame,
By every zone and wind and tide,
Who bear the ancient, storied name;
In heart respond to Argyll's woe
For lofty Cailen lying low.

We, children of the royal house,
True to the blood whate'er befall,
In lineal dreams our hearts arouse,
Responsive to that ancient call,
By glen and misted mountain brow,—
Of Campbell; and the dread Lochow!