Awake, thou first of creatures! Indignant in their frown, Let the flag unfold the features that the heather[119] blossoms crown; Arise, and lightly mount thy crest while flap thy flanks in air, And I will follow thee the best, that I may dow or dare. Yes, I will sing the Lion-King o'er all the tribes victorious, To living thing may not concede thy meed and actions glorious; How oft thy noble head has woke thy valiant men to battle, As panic o'er their spirit broke, and rued the foe their mettle! Is there, thy praise to underrate, in very thought presuming, O'er crested chieftainry[120] thy state, O thou, of right assuming! I see thee, on thy silken flag, in rampant[121] glory streaming, As life inspired their firmness thy planted hind feet seeming. The standard tree is proud of thee, its lofty sides embracing, Anon, unfolding, to give forth thy grandeur airy space in. A following of the trustiest are cluster'd by thy side, And woe, their flaming visages of crimson, who shall bide? The heather and the blossom are pledges of their faith, And the foe that shall assail them, is destined to the death. Was not a dearth of mettle among thy native kind? They were foremost in the battle, nor in the chase behind. Their arms of fire wreak'd out their ire, their shields emboss'd with gold, And the thrusting of their venom'd points upon the foemen told; O deep and large was every gash that mark'd their manly vigour, And irresistible the flash that lighten'd round their trigger; And woe, when play'd the dark blue blade, the thick back'd sharp Ferrara, Though plied its might by stripling hand, it cut into the marrow. Clan Colla,[122] let them have their due, thy true and gallant following, Strength, kindness, grace, and clannishness, their lofty spirit hallowing. Hot is their ire as flames aspire, the whirling March winds fanning them, Yet search their hearts, no blemish'd parts are found all eyes though scanning them. They rush elate to stern debate, the battle call has never Found tardy cheer or craven fear, or grudge the prey to sever. Ah, fell their wrath! The dance[123] of death sends legs and arms a flying, And thick the life blood's reek ascends of the downfallen and the dying. Clandonuil, still my darling theme, is the prime of every clan, How oft the heady war in, has it chased where thousands ran. O ready, bold, and venom full, these native warriors brave, Like adders coiling on the hill, they dart with stinging glaive; Nor wants their course the speed, the force, --nor wants their gallant stature, This of the rock, that of the flock that skim along the water, Like whistle shriek the blows they strike, as the torrent of the fell,