 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
THE MACGREGORS
Landless and nameless,
By clachan and grange,
Among foes that are shameless,
And friends that are strange,
We skulk, but are tameless,
And live for revenge.
By clachan and grange,
Among foes that are shameless,
And friends that are strange,
We skulk, but are tameless,
And live for revenge.
Here we are Campbells,
And there we are Grahames;
We join in their rambles,
Take part in their games;
Till we make their homes shambles
And wrap them in flames.
And there we are Grahames;
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Take part in their games;
Till we make their homes shambles
And wrap them in flames.
Outcasts from Glenfalloch,
Glenstrae and Glengyle,
Balquidder and Balloch,
And Katrine's green isle,
Our red deer they gralloch,
Our graves they defile.
Glenstrae and Glengyle,
Balquidder and Balloch,
And Katrine's green isle,
Our red deer they gralloch,
Our graves they defile.
For the hapless MacGregor
There is no law nor kirk,
But only the trigger,
The sword and the dirk,
And for a grave-digger
The crow in the mirk.
There is no law nor kirk,
But only the trigger,
The sword and the dirk,
And for a grave-digger
The crow in the mirk.
All faith and opinion
They wholly ignore;
Our only dominion
The mists of Benmore,
Or the crags of Stobinion
Where wild the winds roar.
They wholly ignore;
Our only dominion
The mists of Benmore,
Or the crags of Stobinion
Where wild the winds roar.
Hunted for ever
By day and by night
Over moor, loch, and river,
And bleak mountain height,
We empty our quiver
Each day in a fight.
By day and by night
Over moor, loch, and river,
And bleak mountain height,
We empty our quiver
Each day in a fight.
The grouse on the heather
Has its season of rest,
And the hare in rough weather
By fear is not pressed;
But MacGregor has neither
Close time, nor safe nest.
Has its season of rest,
And the hare in rough weather
By fear is not pressed;
But MacGregor has neither
Close time, nor safe nest.
Estranged and escheated,
No birthrights we own,
Where our homes were once seated
Grass hides the hearthstone,
Like brutes we are treated,
Like brutes we have grown.
No birthrights we own,
Where our homes were once seated
Grass hides the hearthstone,
Like brutes we are treated,
Like brutes we have grown.
They heed no denials
Of guilt and bloodshed,
Nor wait they for trials,
Or proof to be led,
To pour out the vials
Of wrath on our head.
Of guilt and bloodshed,
Nor wait they for trials,
Or proof to be led,
To pour out the vials
Of wrath on our head.
But there's a to-morrow
That comes soon or late,
When Vengeance shall borrow
The semblance of Fate,
And they shall have sorrow,
And we wreak our hate.
That comes soon or late,
When Vengeance shall borrow
The semblance of Fate,
And they shall have sorrow,
And we wreak our hate.
And the braes of Balquidder
Shall see us again,
When the bloom's on the heather,
And the sun on the rain,
As we bring back together
The tale of the slain.
Shall see us again,
When the bloom's on the heather,
And the sun on the rain,
As we bring back together
The tale of the slain.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |