JACOBITE RELICS.
89
War and confiscation
Curse the fallen nation;
Gloom and desolation
Shade the lost land o'er.
Chill the winds are blowing,
Death aloft is going;
Peace or hope seems growing
For our race no more.
Hark the foe is calling,
Fast the woods are falling,
Scenes and sights appalling
Throng our blood-stained shore.
Where's my goat to cheer me.
Now it plays not near me;
Friends no more can hear me;
Strangers round me stand.
