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