THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON.
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THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON.
Yes, it is ours!—the field is won,
A dark and evil field!
Lift from the ground my noble son,
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield!
Let me not hear your trumpets ring,
Swell not the battle-horn!
Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring,
When to the grave my glorious flower is borne!
Speak not of victory!—in the name
There is too much of woe!
Hush'd be the empty voice of Fame—
Call me back his whose graceful head is low.
Speak not of victory!—-from my halls
The sunny hour is gone!
The ancient banner on my walls
Must sink ere long—I had but him—but one!
