The World's Best Poetry, Volume 8 - National Spirit by Various
page 67 of 536 (12%)
page 67 of 536 (12%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
Toward the wintry sea.
There's shouting on the mountain-side, There's war within the blast-- Old faces look upon me, Old forms go trooping past. I hear the pibroch wailing Amidst the din of fight, And my dim spirit wakes again Upon the verge of night. 'Twas I that led the Highland host Through wild Lochaber's snows, What time the plaided clans came down To battle with Montrose. I've told thee how the Southrons fell Beneath the broad claymore, And how we smote the Campbell clan By Inverlochy's shore. I've told thee how we swept Dundee, And tamed the Lindsays' pride; But never have I told thee yet How the great Marquis died. A traitor sold him to his foes;-- O deed of deathless shame! I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet With one of Assynt's name-- Be it upon the mountain's side, Or yet within the glen, Stand he in martial gear alone, |
|