POETRY. 377, 



But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past. 

 The morn on our mountains is dawning at last, 

 Glenaladale's peaks are illumined with rays, 

 And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze. 



O high-minded Moray ! — the exiled — the dear ! — 

 In the blush of the morning the standard uprear ! 

 Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly, 

 Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh ! 



Ye sons of the strong, when the dawning shall break. 

 Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake ? 

 That dawn never beam'd on your forefather's eye. 

 But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die. 



O sprung from the kings who in Islay kept state. 

 Proud chiefs of Clan Ranald, Glengary, and Sleat I 

 Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow, 

 And resistless in uniou rush down on the foe ! 



True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel, 

 Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel ! 

 Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell. 

 Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell ! 



Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail, 

 Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale 5 

 May the race of Clan Gillcan, the fearless and free. 

 Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee ! 



Let the clan of Grey Fingon, whose offspring has given 

 Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven. 

 Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri-More, 

 To launch the long galley and stretch to the oaf ! 



How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall displaj 

 The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey ! 

 How the race of wrong'd Alpin and murder'd Glencoe 

 Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe ! 



Ye SODS of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar. 

 Resume the pure faith of the great Callain-More ! 

 Mac Neil of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake, 

 For honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake ! 



Awake on your hills, on your islands awake. 

 Brave sons of the mountain, the frith and the lake '. 

 'Tis the bugle — but not to the chase is the call ; 

 'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons — but not to the hall. 

 Vol. LVI. 2 P 



