Take away that star and garter-- Hide them from my aching sight: Neither king nor prince shall tempt me From my lonely room this night; Fitting for the throneless exile Is the atmosphere of pall, And the gusty winds that shiver 'Neath the tapestry on the wall. When the taper faintly dwindles Like the pulse within the vein, That to gay and merry measure Ne'er may hope to bound again, Let the shadows gather round me While I sit in silence here, Broken-hearted, as an orphan Watching by his father's bier. Let me hold my still communion Far from every earthly sound-- Day of penance--day of passion-- Ever, as the year comes round; Fatal day, whereon the latest Die was cast for me and mine-- Cruel day, that quelled the fortunes Of the hapless Stuart line! Phantom-like, as in a mirror, Rise the griesly scenes of death-- There before me, in its wildness, Stretches bare Culloden's heath: There the broken clans are scattered, Gaunt as wolves, and famine-eyed, Hunger gnawing at their vitals, Hope abandoned, all but pride-- Pride, and that supreme devotion Which the Southron never knew, And the hatred, deeply rankling, 'Gainst the Hanoverian crew. Oh, my God! are these the remnants, These the wrecks of the array That around the royal standard Gathered on the glorious day, When, in deep Glenfinnan's valley; Thousands, on their bended knees, Saw once more that stately ensign Waving in the northern breeze, When the noble Tullibardine Stood beneath its weltering fold, With the Ruddy Lion ramping In the field of tressured gold, When the mighty heart of Scotland, All too big to slumber more, Burst in wrath and exultation, Like a huge volcano's roar? There they stand, the battered columns, Underneath the murky sky, In the hush of desperation, Not to conquer, but to die. Hark! the bagpipe's fitful wailing: Not the pibroch loud and shrill, That, with hope of bloody banquet, Lured the ravens from the hill, But a dirge both low and solemn, Fit for ears of dying men, Marshalled for their latest battle, Never more to fight again. Madness--madness! Why this shrinking? Were we less inured to war When our reapers swept the harvest From the field of red Dunbar? Bring my horse, and blow the trumpet! Call the riders of Fitz-James: Let Lord Lewis head the column! Valiant chiefs of mighty names-- Trusty Keppoch, stout Glengarry, Gallant Gordon, wise Locheill-- Bid the clansmen hold together, Fast, and fell, and firm as steel. Elcho, never look so gloomy-- What avails a saddened brow? Heart, man, heart! we need it sorely, Never half so much, as now. Had we but a thousand troopers, Had we but a thousand more! Noble Perth, I hear them coming!-- Hark! the English cannons' roar. God! how awful sounds that volley,