There Lochiel, Glengarry there, Macdonald, Cameron: souls untried In war, but stout in mountain-pride All odds against all worlds to laugh and dare: Unpurchaseable faith of chief and clan! Enough! Their Prince has thrown Himself upon his own! By hearts not heads they count, and manhood measures man! 7 --Torrent from Lochaber sprung, Through Badenoch bare and Athole turn'd, The fettering Forth o'erpast and spurn'd, Then on the smiling South in fury flung; Now gather head with all thine affluent force, Draw forth the wild mellay! At Gladsmuir is the fray; Scotland 'gainst England match'd: White Rose against White Horse! 8 Cluster'd down the slope they go, Red clumps of ragged valour, down, While morn-mists yet the hill-top crown:-- Clan Colla! on!--the Camerons touch the foe! One touch!--the battle breaks, the fight is fought, As summit-boulders glide Riddling the forest-side, And in one moment's crash an army melts to nought! 9 --Ah gay nights of Holyrood! Star-eyes of Scotland's fairest fair, Sun-glintings of the golden hair, Life's tide at full in that brief interlude! Then as a bark slips from her natural coast Deep into seas unknown, Scotland went forth alone, Unfriended, unallied; a handful 'gainst a host. 10 By the Bolder moorlands bare, By faithless Solway's glistening sands, And where Caer Luel's dungeon stands, Huge keep of ancient Urien, huge, foursquare:-- Preston, and loyal Lancashire; . . . and then From central Derby down, To strike the royal town, And to his German realm the usurper thrust again! 11 --O the lithesome mountaineers, Wild hearts with kingly boyhood high, And victory in each forward eye, While stainless honour his white banner rears! Then all the air with mountain-music thrill'd, The bonnets o'er the brow,-- My gallant clans! . . . and now The voices closed in earth, in death the pibroch still'd! 12 --As beneath Ben Aille's crest The west wind weaves its roof of gray, And all the glory of the day Blooms off from loch and copse and green hill-breast; So, when that craven council spoke retreat, The fateful shameful word They heard,--and scarcely heard! At Scotland's name how should the blood refuse to beat? 13 --O soul-piercing stroke of shame! O last, last, chance,--and wasted so! Work wanting but the final blow,-- And, then, the hopeless hope, the crownless name, The heart's desire defeated!--What boots now That ice-brook-temper'd will, Indomitable still As on through snow and storm their path the dalesmen plough? 14