Again, and yet again that volley flies,—
With deadly aim the grapeshot sweeps the field;—
All levelled for the charge, the bayonets gleam,
And brawny arms a thousand claymores fiercely wield.
And down the line swells high the British cheer,
That on a future day woke Minden's plain,
And the loud slogan that fair Scotland's foes
Have often heard with dread, and oft shall hear again.
And the shrill pipe its coronach that wailed
On dark Culloden moor o'er trampled dead,