BREATHE Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, O Caledonia! stern and wild, Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, That knits me to thy rugged strand? Sole friends thy woods and streams were left, By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, Sir Walter Scott. GATHERING OF THE MACGREGORS. HE moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae, THE And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day; Then, gather, gather, gather, Grigalach! Gather, gather, gather. Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew, Must be heard but by night in our vengeful halloo ! Then, halloo, Grigalach! halloo, Grigalach! Halloo, halloo, halloo, Grigalach. 1 Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchurn and her towers, But doomed and devoted by vassal and lord, If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles, Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles! Then, vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach! Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance. While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on the river, Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career, O'er the peak of Ben Lomond the galley shall steer, And the rocks of Craig Royston like icicles melt, Ere our wrongs be forgot or our vengeance unfelt. Then, gather, gather, gather, Grigalach! Gather, gather, gather. Sir Walter Scott. |