A LILT OF THE ROAD
135
This was our limit, for next day
We turned upon our homeward way,
Passing first Culloden's plain
Where the tombstones of the slain
Loom above the purple heather.
There the clansmen lie together—
Men from many an outland skerry,
Men from Athol and Glengarry,
Camerons from wild Mamore,
MacDonalds from the Irish Shore,
Red MacGregors and McLeods
With their tartans for their shrouds,
Menzies, Malcolms from the islands,
Frasers from the upper Highlands—
Callous is the passer by
Who can turn without a sigh
From the tufts of heather deep
Where the noble clansmen sleep.
