On the heights of Killiecrankie
Yester-morn our army lay:
Slowly rose the mist in columns

From the river's broken way; Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent, And the Pass was wrapt in gloom, When the clansmen rose together

From their lair amidst the broom. Then we belted on our tartans,

And our bonnets down we drew, And we felt our broadswords' edges, And we proved them to be true; And we prayed the prayer of soldiers, And we cried the gathering-cry, And we clasped the hands of kinsmen, And we swore to do or die! Then our Teader rode before us

On his war-horse black as night

Well the Cameronian rebels

Knew that charger in the fight!-of exultation

And a cry

From the bearded warriors rose; For we loved the house of Claver'se,

And we thought of good Montrose. But he raised his hand for silence— "Soldiers! I have sworn a vow: Ere the evening star shall glisten On Schehallion's lofty brow, Either we shall rest in triumph,

D

Or another of the Grames

Shall have died in battle-harness
For his Country and King James!
Think upon the Royal Martyr-

Think of what his race endureThink of him whom butchers murdered

On the field of Magus Muir :By his sacred blood I charge ye,

:

By the ruined hearth and shrineBy the blighted hopes of Scotland, By your injuries and mine— Strike this day as if the anvil

Lay beneath your blows the while,

Be they covenanting traitors,

Or the brood of false Argyle! Strike! and drive the trembling rebels Backwards o'er the stormy Forth; Let them tell their pale Convention How they fared within the North. Let them tell that Highland honour Is not to be bought nor sold, That we scorn their prince's anger As we loathe his foreign gold. Strike! and when the fight is over, If ye look in vain for me,

Where the dead are lying thickest,

Search for him that was Dundee !"

Loudly then the hills re-echoed

With our answer to his call, But a deeper echo sounded

In the bosoms of us all.

For the lands of wide Breadalbane,
Not a man who heard him speak
Would that day have left the battle.
Burning eye and flushing cheek

Told the clansmen's fierce emotion,

And they harder drew their breath; For their souls were strong within them, Stronger than the grasp of death. Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet Sounding in the Pass below, And the distant tramp of horses, And the voices of the foe:

Down we crouched amid the bracken, Till the Lowland ranks drew near, Panting like the hounds in summer, When they scent the stately deer. From the dark defile emerging,

Next we saw the squadrons come, Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers Marching to the tuck of drum ; Through the scattered wood of birches, O'er the broken ground and heath, Wound the long battalion slowly,

Till they gained the plain beneath; Then we bounded from our covert.—

Judge how looked the Saxons then,

When they saw the rugged mountain

Start to life with armèd men ! Like a tempest down the ridges Swept the hurricane of steel, Rose the slogan of Macdonald

Flashed the broadsword of Lochiel! Vainly sped the withering volley 'Mongst the foremost of our bandOn we poured until we met them, Foot to foot, and hand to hand. Horse and man went down like drift-wood When the floods are black at Yule, And their carcasses are whirling In the Garry's deepest pool. Horse and man went down before usLiving foe there tarried none

On the field of Killiecrankie,

When that stubborn fight was done!

And the evening star was shining
On Schehallion's distant head,
When we wiped our bloody broadswords,
And returned to count the dead.
There we fouud him gashed and gory,

Stretched upon the cumbered plain,

As he told us where to seek him,
In the thickest of the slain.
And a smile was on his visage,

For within his dying ear

Pealed the joyful note of triumph,

And the clansmen's clamorous cheer So, amidst the battle's thunder,

Shot, and steel, and scorching flame, In the glory of his manhood

Passed the spirit of the Græme!

Open wide the vaults of Atholl,

Where the bones of heroes rest

Open wide the hallowed portals
To receive another guest!

Last of Scots, and last of freemen—
Last of all that dauntless race,
Who would rather die unsullied
Than outlive the land's disgrace!

O thou lion-hearted warrior!
Reck not of the after-time:
Honour may be deemed dishonour,
Loyalty be called a crime.

Sleep in

peace Iwith kindred ashes

Of the noble and the true,

Hands that never failed their country,

Hearts that never baseness knew.

Sleep!—and till the latest trumpet Wakes the dead from earth and sea,

Scotland shall not boast a braver

Chieftain than our own Dundee !

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