When storms are gathering, clouds thy brow;
No shade of fear or weak despair
Blends with indignant sorrow there!
The ray which streams on yon red field,
O’er Scotland’s cloven helm and shield,
Glitters not there alone, to shed
Its cloudless beauty o’er the dead;
But where smooth Carron’s rippling wave
Flows near that deathbed of the brave,
Illuming all the midnight scene,