The Forgotten Brave

'Tis finish'd, they 've died for their forefathers' land,
As the patriot sons of the mountain should die,
With the mail on each bosom, the sword in each hand,
On the heath of the desert they lie.
Like their own mountain eagles they rush'd to the fight,
Like the oaks of their deserts they braved its rude blast;
Their blades in the morning look'd dazzling and bright,
But red when the battle was past.

They rush'd on, exulting in honour, and met
The foes of their country in battle array;
But the sun of their glory in darkness hath set,
And the flowers of the forest are faded away!
Oh! far from the scenes of their childhood they sleep,
No friend of their bosom, no loved one is near,
To add a gray stone to their cairns on the steep,
Or drop o'er their ashes a tear.