Callum-a-glen

Was ever old warrior of suffering so weary ?

Was ever the wild beast so bay'd in his den ?
The southern bloodhounds lie in kennel so near me,
That death would be freedom to Callum-a-Glen.
My sons are all slain, and my daughters have left me,
No child to protect me, where once there were ten ;
My chief they have slain, and of stay have bereft me,
And woe to the gray hairs of Callum-a-Glen !

The homes of my kinsmen are blazing to heaven,
The bright steep of morning has blush'd at the view ;
The moon has stood still on the verge of the even,
To wipe from her pale cheek the tint of the dew :
For the dew it lies red on the vales of Lochaber,
It sprinkles the cot, and it flows in the pen ;
The pride of my country is fallen for ever —
Death, hast thou no shaft for old Callum-a-Glen ?

The sun in his glory has look'd on our sorrow,
The stars have wept-blood over hamlet and lea ;
O ! is there no day-spring for Scotland — no morrow
Of bright renovation for souls of the free ?
Yes, One above all hath beheld our devotion,
Our valour and faith are not hid from his ken;
The day is abiding of stern retribution
On all the proud foes of old Callum-a-Glen.