Ye dark rolling clouds, round the brow of Ben Borrow,
   O weep your dark tears to the green vales below;
Ye winds of the hill, wake your wailings of sorrow,
   No beams of the morning can gladness bestow!
A rise, ye grey mists, from the loud falling Corrie,
   And shroud from our children the sad sight of wail;
The warriors that left them high bounding for glory
   Shall never return to the land of the Gael.

Our maidens have twined the wild mountain flowers,
   To crown their young lovers they await their return;
Alas, for their fondness! they know not of hours
   When tidings of sorrow shall bid them to mourn.
I heard the dread howl of the wolf from the mountain,
   I saw the dark death-bird flit over the plain,
I saw a red stream, and a blood-curdled fountain,
   And the war-horse dash over the breast of the slain.

The Saxon has swept o'er the plains of Culloden,
   Our heroes have fallen, or wander'd afar
'Mong dark mountain caves, where the blue mist is shrouding-
   No minstrel awaits their returning from war.
By yon gloomy pine, on the grey brow of Morra,
   A young prince is wand'ring dejected and lone,
From his deep-troubled breast come the sad sighs of sorrow
   For chieftains departed, and young virgins gone.

He turns his sad eyes to the land of his fathers,
   Where banners of welcome once waved on her towers;
Those honors departed are given to others,
   The tears of regret wander down for those hours.
I see a white sail through the dim mist of ocean,
   It comes like a beam on the dawning of day;
Albyn-awake thee to mournful devotion,
It bears him an exile for ever away.


Peter M'Arthur