THE DAY OF CULLODEN.
Ah, the wound of my breast! Sinks my heart to the dust,
And the rain-drops of sorrow are watering the ground;
So impassive to hear, never pierces my ear,
Or briskly or slowly, the music of sound.
For, what tidings can charm, while emotion is warm
With the thought of my Prince on his travel unknown;
The royal in blood, by misfortune subdued,
While the base-born[148] by hosts is secured on the throne?
Of the hound is the race that has wrought our disgrace,
Yet the boast of the litter of mongrels is small,
Not the arm of your might makes it boast of our flight,
But the musters that failed at the moment of call—
Five banners were furl'd that might challenge the world,
Of their silk not a pennon was spread to the day;
Where is Cromarty's earl, with the fearless of peril,
Young Barisdale's following, Mackinnon's array?
Where the sons of the glen,[149] the Clan-gregor, in vain
That never were hail'd to the carnage of war—
Where Macvurich,[150] the child of victory styled?
How we sigh'd when we learn'd that his host was afar!
Clan-donuil,[151] my bosom friend, woe that the blossom
That crests your proud standard, for once disappear'd,
Nor marshall'd your march, where your princely deserts
Without stain might the cause of the right have uprear'd!
And now I say woe, for the sad overthrow
Of the clan that is honour'd with Frazer's[152] command,
And the Farquharsons[153] bold on the Mar-braes enroll'd,
So ready to rise, and so trusty to stand.
But redoubled are shed my tears for the dead,
As I think of Clan-chattan,[154] the foremost in fight;
Oh, woe for the time that has shrivell'd their prime,
And woe that the left[155] had not stood at the right!
Our sorrows bemoan gentle Donuil the Donn,
And Alister Rua the king of the feast;
And valorous Raipert the chief of the true-heart,
Who fought till the beat of its energy ceased.
In the mist of that night vanish'd stars that were bright,
Nor by tally nor price shall their worth be replaced;
Ah, boded the morning of our brave unreturning,
When it drifted the clouds in the rush of its blast.
As we march'd on the hill, such the floods that distil,
Turning dry bent to bog, and to plash-pools the heather,
That friendly no more was the ridge of the moor,
Nor free to our tread, and the ire of the weather
Anon was inflamed by the lightning untamed,
And the hail rush that storm'd from the mouth of the gun,
Hard pelted the stranger, ere we measured our danger,
And broadswords were masterless, marr'd, and undone.[156]
Sure as answers my song to its title, a wrong
To our forces, the wiles of the traitor[157] have wrought;
To each true man's disgust, the leader in trust
Has barter'd his honour, and infamy bought.
His gorget he spurns, and his mantle[158] he turns,
And for gold he is won, to his sovereign untrue;
But a turn of the wheel to the liar will deal,
From the south or the north, the award of his due.
And fell William,[159] the son of the man on the throne,
Be his emblem the leafless, the marrowless tree;
May no sapling his root, and his branches no fruit
Afford to his hope; and his hearth, let it be
As barren and bare—not a partner to share,
Not a brother to love, not a babe to embrace;
Mute the harp, and the taper be smother'd in vapour,
Like Egypt, the darkness and loss of his race!
Oh, yet shall the eye see thee swinging on high,
And thy head shall be pillow'd where ravens shall prey,
And the lieges each one, from the child to the man,
The monarch by right shall with fondness obey.
JOHN MORRISON.
John Morrison was a native of Perthshire. Sometime before 1745 he was settled as missionary at Amulree, a muirland district near Dunkeld. In 1759 he became minister of Petty, a parish in the county of Inverness. He obtained his preferment in consequence of an interesting incident in his history. The proprietor of Delvine in Perthshire, who was likewise a Writer to the Signet, was employed in a legal process, which required a diligence to be executed against one of the clan Frazer. A design to waylay and murder the official employed in the diligence had been concerted. This came to the knowledge of a clergyman who ministered in a parish chiefly inhabited by the Lovat tenantry. The minister, afraid of openly divulging the design, on account of the unsettled nature of his flock, begged an immediate visit from his friend, Mr Morrison, who speedily returned to Perthshire with information to the laird of Delvine. The Frazers found the authority of the law supported by a sufficient force; and Mr Morrison was rewarded by being presented, through the influence of the laird of Delvine, to the parish of Petty. Amidst professional engagements discharged with zeal and acceptance, Morrison found leisure for the composition of verses. Two of his lyrics are highly popular among the Gael; one of them we offer as a specimen, and an improved version of the other will afterwards appear in the present work. Mr Morrison died in November 1774.
MY BEAUTY DARK.
The heroine of this piece was a young lady who became the author's wife, upon an acquaintance originally formed by the administration of the ordinance of baptism to her in infancy.
My beauty dark, my glossy bright,
Dark beauty, do not leave me;
They call thee dark, but to my sight
Thou 'rt milky white, believe me.