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Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess
If evermore should meet those mutual eyes
Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn should rise!
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar,
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips—“the foe! they come! they come!”
And wild and high the 'Cameron's gathering' rose
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard—and heard too have her Saxon foes;
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! but with the breath which fills
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring, which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years;
And Evan's, Donald's fame, ring in each clansman's ears.
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaven
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving—if aught inanimate e'er grieves—
Over the unreturning brave,—alas!
