Fresh and bleeding from the battle
Whence his spirit took its flight,
Midst the crashing charge of squadrons,
And the thunder of the fight!
Strike, I say, the notes of triumph,
As we march o'er moor and lea!

Is there any here will venture

To bewail our dead Dundee ? Let the widows of the traitors Weep until their eyes are dim! Wail ye may full well for Scotland

Let none dare to mourn for him!
See! above his glorious body

Lies the royal banner's fold
See! his valiant blood is mingled

With its crimson and its gold ----
See how calm he looks, and stately,
Like a warrior on his shield,
Waiting till the flush of morning
Breaks along the battle-field!

See

oh never more, my comrades,
Shall we see that falcon eye
Redden with its inward lightning,
As the hour of fight drew nigh!
Never shall we hear the voice that,
Clearer than the trumpet's call,
Bade us strike for king and country,
Bade us win the field, or fall!

On the heights of Killiecrankie
Yester-morn our army lay;
Slowly rose the mist in columns
From the river's broken way;
Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent,
And the Pass was wrapped in gloom,
When the clansmen rose together

From their lair amidst the broom.
Then we belted on our tartans,

And our bonnets down we drew, And we felt our broadswords' edges, And we proved them to be true; And we prayed the prayer of soldiers, And we cried the gathering-cry, And we clasped the hands of kinsmen, And we swore to do or die !

Then our leader rode before us

On his war-horse black as night – Well the Cameronian rebels

Knew that charger in the fight! And a cry of exultation

From the bearded warriors rose ; For we loved the house of Claver'se, And we thought of good Montrose. But he raised his hand for silence · "Soldiers! I have sworn a vow: Ere the evening star shall glisten

On Schehallion's lofty brow,

Either we shall rest in triumph,

Or another of the Græmes Shall have died in battle-harness

For his country and King James ! Think upon the Royal Martyr Think of what his race endure; Think on him whom butchers murdered On the field of Magus Muir : By his sacred blood I charge ye, By the ruined hearth and shrine By the blighted hopes of Scotland, By your injuries and mineStrike this day as if the anvil

Lay beneath your blows the while,

Be they Covenanting traitors,

Or the brood of false Argyle! Strike! and drive the trembling rebels Backwards o'er the stormy Forth; Let them tell their pale Convention How they fared within the North. Let them tell that Highland honor Is not to be bought nor sold, That we scorn their prince's anger As we loathe his foreign gold. Strike! and when the fight is over, If you look in vain for me, Where the dead are lying thickest

Search for him that was Dundee !"

Loudly then the hills re-echoed
With our answer to his call,
But a deeper echo sounded

In the bosoms of us all.

For the lands of wide Breadalbane,
Not a man who heard him speak
Would that day have left the battle.
Burning eye and flushing cheek
Told the clansmen's fierce emotion,
And they harder drew their breath;
For their souls were strong within them,
Stronger than the grasp of death.
Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet
Sounding in the Pass below,
And the distant tramp of horses,
And the voices of the foe;

Down we crouched amid the bracken,
Till the Lowland ranks drew near,
Panting like the hounds in summer,
When they scent the stately deer.
From the dark defile emerging,

Next we saw the squadrons come, Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers Marching to the tuck of drum ; Through the scattered wood of birches, O'er the broken ground and heath, Wound the long battalion slowly,

Till they gained the plain beneath;