Upon the evening calm and bright,
That followed on the fatal night,
Just as the sun was setting red
Behind Benmore's sequestered head,
And weeping tears of yellow light,
That, streaming down, bedimmed his sight,
As he prepared to make his grave
Beneath the deep Atlantic wave;
I stood and viewed with starting tears
The silent scene of glorious years,
And thought me on my former pride,
As when I marched my chief beside,
Before my clansmen strong and bold—
Returning to our mountain hold,
Victorious in the bloody close,
And weighed with spoils of vanquished foes—
And filled the rocky glens around
With peals of wild, triumphant sound.
But when I saw the bloody stains,
And gazed upon the black remains,
And thought upon my murdered chief,
For rage I quick forgot my grief;
And deeply vowed of vengeance then
Upon the cursed Campbell men.
But then, alas! how vain my vow!
Where were Lochaber's warriors now?
When thus to bitter grief returned,
Adown the valley I discerned
A figure, and my fading eye
A female form could just descry,
Who onward came in fleet career,
Swiftly as speed the frighted deer.
Her gait and garb so light and wild
Bespoke the maid the mountain's child;
Her auburn tresses waved behind,
Bespread luxuriant on the wind;
And from her soft and deep blue eye,
In colour like the midnight sky,
There beamed a clear and beauteous light
As from the blue of northern night;
And to my side young Janet ran,—
The pride and flower of the clan.
With direful thoughts and faces dazed
We one upon the other gazed.
Nothing she spake, but turning 'round
In silence sought the cumbered ground.
A bitter cry the maiden gave
As she approached the open grave;
And as among its ways she went,
She wailed this mournful, wild lament.
Where, where is the beauty that once I could scan?
And where is the power and pride of my clan?
Ah! gloomy to-day is the vale of Glencoe!
And the house of Ian Abrach is humbled and low.
The bright spot of my childhood is reft of its light!
Dark, dark are the scenes it presents to my sight!
And the homes of its people have shared in its fate,
And its children are murdered through malice and hate.
Yes, the warm Highland heart, that had prompted the host
With the other to vie in regaling them most,
By the hand of the stranger, the wolf in the fold,
When the feasting is over lies lifeless and cold.
And the youth that had cheerfully led in the chase,
Whose mind never dreamed of dishonour so base,
And who weary that night had retired to rest,
Awoke with the treacherous steel in his breast.
And the damsel, bewildered with witcheries wove,
Elated with flattery, fêted with love,
In the height of her maidenly beauty and joy,
Having lain down to dream, was awakened to die.
And not even the babe that reposed on the breast
In its innocent peace was permitted to rest.
Prophetic and awful, the curses of guilt,
Are the cryings of children whose blood has been spilt!
And there lies the chieftain, beloved and revered,
His rule it was just, nor in conflict he feared;
He was butchered at night by the villainous foe,
And discoloured with blood in his couch in the snow.
*****
My father! my father! Why here dost thou lie?
Arouse thee, dear father, arouse thee, 'tis I!
Why dost thou not answer? My God! it is so!
And his lips are as cold and as white as the snow.