Classic Poem

O Culloden is bitter as ever
To the children of them that were slain!
The day they forget shall be never,
Or the pride of the Gael is in vain.

O Culloden was blacker in foulness
Than the night that fell on the slain
For the heart of the victor was soulless
And his deeds were accurs't and in vain.

But the wrongs of the Celt are the scourging,
And whip of the God that is flame;
From dreaming to victory urging
The spirit that reckons not fame.