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Lochiel! Lochiel, beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight:
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing
lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
'Tis thine, Oh Glenullin!
whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate.
With the bloodhounds, that bark for thy fugitive king.
Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold; where he flies on his desolate path!
Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight: Rise! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight!
'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores; But where the iron-bound prisoner? Where?
For the red eye of battle is shut in
Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn,
Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn? Ah, no! for a darker departure is near;