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Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle's wild call,
The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave;
But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall,
And the soft voice of melody sigh o'er thy grave,
While Albyn remembers the words of the chief,
"To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!"
Thou art fallen, O fearless one! flower of thy race!
Descendant of heroes! thy glory is set!
But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chace,
Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet!
Nor vainly have echoed the words of the chief,
"To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!"
