Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads :: :: University of Virginia Library

Bright both in sun and shade,
Shone the brave white cockade—
White as the snow that laid
On dark Culloden.
How the Macgregors came,
Faster than running flame,
Putting the Grants to shame,
Though so down-trodden.

Looking along the line,
I saw the fiery eyne
Of the Macdonalds shine
At the clan Frasers.
They pulled their bonnets down,
With a black, cruel frown,
Firm on their matted crown
(Swords sharp as razors).

130

Each one his claymore-sheath
Threw on the purple heath,
And with dirk 'tween his teeth
Glared at the cannon,
Reapers at early dawn,
Standing beside the corn,
With our keen sickles drawn,
That day we ran on.

As the wind reaps the pines,
So through the Saxon lines,
Where the bright bayonet shines,
Burst we in anger,
Spite of the fiery hail,
All our grim faces pale,
With a loud pibroch wail,
Drove our mad clangour.

Loud rang the war pipes then,
Cheering the Cameron men
Thinking of lake and glen
'Mid the fire fountains,
Waved the white ribbons all,
Round the king's colours tall,
Answered the bugle call,
Horns of the mountains.

131

Athol-men, tall and lithe,
Each with a sweeping scythe;
Yet they were but a tithe
Of the brave rebels.
Waded knee deep in blood
Through the hot, burning flood,
On through a flaming wood,
As their strength trebles.

Barehead in wind and sun,
We prayed to only one.
Low the deep murmurs run
Of the Dhun Wassels,
Felled in great swathes, like grain
Layed by the flooding rain:
Tide after tide in vain,
Drove on the vassals.

As from grey Catdicham,
Swoops on the sportive lamb,
Spite of its bleating dam,
Eagle-dark pinions,
Scaring the shepherd's child
With its glance keen and wild,
Then soaring blood-defil'd
To its dominions.

132

As when the flooded rills
Pour down between the hills,
And the lone valley fills
With awe and wonder.
When on before them fast
Flies the red lightning blast,
Through the lit pines aghast
Howls the deep thunder.

Stormy the pipers blew,
Snow white the ribbons flew,
Deeper the fury grew,
Madder than Flodden,
Piercing through heart and brain.
Beating like tempest rain,
Drove the red hurricane
O'er dark Culloden.

We did all that mere steel could do,
Against a Saxon crew,
Arm'd with the fire that flew;
Lightning to blast us,
Swifter than eagles' wing,
From the dark rocky spring,
Where the wild foxgloves cling,
Athol-men past us.

133

One line was swept away,
Still to that fatal fray,
Laughing like boy at play,
Drove on Glengarry.
Pistol in bloody hand,
Target thrown on the sand,
Macbane, with swinging brand,
Did not long tarry.

Banked up with rows of dead,
Calmly as on a bed,
With his gashed forehead red,
Sat Angus the piper.
Knitted his brows, and pale
As seaman who sees a sail
Split in the sudden gale,
Still growing riper.

When Keppock saw them fly,
Tears filled his burning eye—
“Sons of my tribe,” his cry,
“Am I forsaken?”
Fast on the bayonets then,
Hewed he down flag and men,
Fierce as from rocky den,
The wolf o'ertaken.

134

Athol and Cameron men,
Children of Lake and Fen;
Would we could see again
“John of the Battles!”
O for the stormy plaids!
O for the rush of blades,
Where through the rocky glades
Fast the stream prattles.

Round his old sire a son
Threw his stabbed arm, the one
With a blood torrent run,
Shielding from danger,
Praying to Jesus there
To save his hoary hair,
So he might anywhere
Die with the stranger.

One by his chieftain knelt,
Holding his girdled belt;
I saw the hot tears melt,
Shed on the dying.
Then with his broad claymore,
Reeking and wet with gore,
Slew he some three or four
Of the fools flying.

135

As when the granite blocks,
Stricken by lightning shocks,
Breaks from the Lomond rocks:
Riven asunder,
Smoke down the gorge and pass,
Shivered like brittle glass,
Sweeping down pines like grass
With a hoarse thunder.

Crimson like driven flame,
On the red tartans came,
What could their fury tame?
Not steel or iron.
Cutting a bloody lane—
Red path for serf and thane—
Strode the grey Allan Bane
Through thy environ.

Sullen some stand apart,
I saw the tear-drops start,
Wrung from the bleeding heart,
Mourning lost honour.
“Better go mad and weep—
Better grave twelve foot deep—
Better eternal sleep—
Than this dishonour.”

136

Waiting and baring breast,
Gaze turned towards the west;
On their sheathed arms they rest.
Eyes staring redly.
Gnashing with rage their teeth,
Sword in the sluggish sheath—
Dead on the bloody heath,
Slain in the medley.

Wounded men crawl and die,
Striking with glazing eye,
Deadly their grasp and cry,
Stabbing the German.
Clasping the bayonets, they
Strove to hew out a way,
Leaping, like hounds at bay,
On the red vermin.

Old men with blooded hair,
And a half-maddened stare,
Breaking through smoke and glare,
Cried, “Ho, for heaven!
Shall our brave mountaineers
Fly from mere cannoneers?
Who one lost battle fears?
Bruce lost eleven.”

137

Tartans in waves of green,
Moved like a forest seen,
Wind-tossed the hills between,
When the storms blacken.
Plumes on the bonnets shook,
Each one his target took,
Trampling with earnest look
Over the bracken.

One by his brother fell,
I saw him gasp to tell
Name of her loved so well.
Vainly his brother
Staunch'd with the strips of plaid,
Stab from the bayonet blade—
(Youngest of all that raid
Far from his mother.)

Feeble and in the rear,
Yet without sign of fear,
Stood a blind Highland seer,
Allan Mackinnon.
“To-day for revenge,” he cried,
“To-morrow for tears of pride;”
Then with a leap he died,
Crushed by the cannon.

138

Broad stretch'd the moor away,
Far to the east it lay,
Swelling like waves at play,
On the Firth yonder.
High springs the Ross-shire hill,
Silver'd with line of rill;
Sea, sky, and mountain fill
All minds with wonder.