Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses! 
In you let the minions of luxury rove; 
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love: 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war; 
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd;
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; 
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade: 
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; 
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,
Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 

"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices 
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?"
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale. 
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car: 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers; 
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. 

"Illstarr'd, though brave, did no visions foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?" 
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,
Victory crown'd not your fall with applause: 
Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber,
You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar; 
The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number,
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 

Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse ere I tread you again: 
Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roved on the mountains afar: 
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr!