'Neath them, on the shining Ocean,
Island beyond island lay,
Where the peaks of Jura's bosom
Rose o'er holy Oronsay.
Where the greener fields of Islay
Pointed to the far Kintyre,
Fruitful lands of after-ages,
Wasted then with sword and fire.
For the spell that once had gathered
All the chiefs beneath the sway
Of the ancient Royal sceptre
Of the Isles had passed away.
Once from Rathlin to the southward,
Westward, to the low Tiree,
Northward, past the Alps of Coolin,
Somerled ruled land and sea.
Colonsay, Lismore, and Scarba,
Bute and Cumrae, Mull and Skye,
Arran, Jura, Lew's and Islay
Shouted then one battle-cry.
But those Isles that, still united,
Fought at Harlaw, Scotland's might,
Broken by their fierce contentions
Singly waged disastrous fight.
And the teaching of forgiveness,
Grey Iona's creed, became
Not a sign for men to reverence,
But a burning brand of shame.
Still among the names that Ruin
Had not numbered in her train,
Lived the great Clan, proud as ever
Of the race of strong Maclaine.
And his boy, like her he wedded,
Though of nature like the dove,
Showed the eagle-spirit flashing
Through her heritage of love.
Heir of all the vassals' homage
Rendered to the grisly sire,
He had grown his people's treasure,
Fostered as their heart's desire.