The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr!
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade:
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd,
To one who has roved on the mountains afar:
Victory crown'd not your fall with applause:
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Round their white summits though elements war;
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,
And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale.
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers,
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.
Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber,
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
In you let the minions of luxury rove;
Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you,
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?"
Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number,
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd;
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic
Winter presides in his cold icy car:
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?"
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar;
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
"Illstarr'd, though brave, did no visions foreboding
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
Years must elapse ere I tread you again:
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,