Wizard.

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

despair.

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;