Behind the sharp bend of the road,
Beyond the wild Ben Nevis range:
The strains of Donald Dubh again,
Bore out the clans to battles strange.
But, it's O! our tears ran sorely,
As they left the Scottish shore;
For who'd come back, and who would see
Lochaber's wooded braes no more?
Only the Lord of Hosts could tell,
And the wae heart's own prophetic knell.