Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale,
For never shall Albin a destiny meet
So black with dishonor—so foul with retreat.
Tho’ his perishing ranks should be strow’d in their gore,
Like ocean-weeds heap’d on the surf-beaten shore,
Lochiel, untainted by flight, or by chains,
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,
With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe!
And, leaving in battle no blot on his name,