And the evening-star was shining On Schehallion's distant head, When we wiped our bloody broadswords, And returned to count the dead. There we found him, gashed and gory, Stretch'd upon the cumbered plain, As he told us where to seek him, In the thickest of the slain. And a smile was on his visage, For within his dying ear Pealed the joyful note of triumph, And the clansmen's clamorous cheer: So, amidst the battle's thunder, Shot, and steel, and scorching flame, In the glory of his manhood Passed the spirit of the Græme! Open wide the vaults of Athol, Where the bones of heroes rest-- Open wide the hallowed portals To receive another guest! Last of Scots, and last of freemen-- Last of all that dauntless race Who would rather die unsullied Than outlive the land's disgrace! O thou lion-hearted warrior! Reck not of the after-time: Honour may be deemed dishonour, Loyalty be called a crime. Sleep in peace with kindred ashes Of the noble and the true, Hands that never failed their country, Hearts that never baseness knew. Sleep!--and till the latest trumpet Wakes the dead from earth and sea, Scotland shall not boast a braver Chieftain than our own Dundee! THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE The Massacre of Glencoe is an event which neither can nor ought to be forgotten. It was a deed of the worst treason and cruelty--a barbarous infraction of all laws, human and divine; and it exhibits in their foulest perfidy the true characters of the authors and abettors of the Revolution.