FRAGMENT OF A JACOBITE LAY.
Montrose, Claverhouse, where are your people all?
Have I not seen, down there, your standards tall
Girt by the glittering claymores of your bands?
No, the last combat has not yet been lost,
The earth shall shake again, and swords be crossed
Hark! 'Tis the pibroch ringing o'er the lands.
Alas! It was the winds the echoes stirred,
Across the thickets 'twas the passing herd
Guarded by herdsman slow and taciturn.
And of our sacred dead the moss-grown graves
Gather around them but a band of slaves,
Or of nocturnal spectres frowning stern.
Gone are the heroes, all, in battle slain,
Those valiant Scotchmen shall not wake again!
Claverhouse, Montrose, sleep both in the Lord.
Hope there is none, yet believe, O my king,
His last drop of blood thy servant would wring
For thee, like his sires, who died on the sword.
