Classic Poem

Oh , they hae mony ills to dreed,
A weary weird to dree,
The folk ordain'd to snatch their breid
Frae oot the angry sea.

The mune is wading 'mang the clouds,
Wi' face sae wan and pale;
They gather round her like death-shrouds;
The sad winds weary wail.

" Behold the mountain warrior,
The chief of sounding fame,
Whose claymore in the battle flash'd
Like a consuming flame.

" But where, ah! where's the princely air,
The step so firm and true,
The eagle eye, the lordly brow,
Of mighty Evan Dhu?

" Are these the very hands which laid
The Sassenach giant low,
Who dared invade Lochaber's wilds
Full fifty years ago? "

He heeds him not, he hears him not;
The weeping clansmen seem
Like floating shadows hov'ring round,
Or phantoms in a dream.

Anon he sings the mournful song
Some exiled heart of yore
Sang when he thought that he would see
Lochaber's hills no more.

Anon he wakes the battle-cry,
The Cameron's gath'ring strain:
The light of battle flashes in
The old man's eye again.

He clutches by his side, as if
To draw his ancient brand,
And, starting from his couch, aloft
He waves his wither'd hand,

And shouts, " Advance, sons of Lochiel! "
With all the fire of yore,
And seems as waving in his hand
The terrible claymore.

Great Chieftain of the mountain race!
It was thy last adieu;
For clansmen clasp the lifeless form
Of mighty Evan Dhu.