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For the dew it lies red on the vales of Lochaber,
It sprinkles the cot, and it flows in the pen ; The pride of my country is fallen for ever
Death, hast thou no shaft for old Callum-a-Glen ?
The sun in his glory has look'd on our sorrow,
The stars have wept blood over hamlet and lea; O! is there no day-spring for Scotland—no morrow
Of bright renovation for souls of the free? Yes, One above all hath beheld our devotion,
Our valour and faith are not hid from his ken; The day is abiding of stern retribution
On all the proud foes of old Callum-a-Glen.
THE THREE MEN OF MORISTON.
This ballad is beautifully set to music by Thomson ;-the accompaniments by the immortal Haydn. The editor adds, that he has given this excellent ballad as it came to him; but though it commemorates three worthies only, it has been said that there were six of them, namely, the three trusty Macdonalds, Peter Grant, Hugh Chisholm, and Colin Fraser, by whom the Prince was concealed and supported in a cave in Glen-Moriston, for above five weeks. One of the Macdonalds went often in disguise into the English camp, to procure some wheaten bread for their guest, and pick up what intelligence he could. There he regularly heard, at the drum-head, a proclamation in Eng. lish and Gaelic, of a reward of fifty thousand pounds, to any one who would produce the Pretender. But though the guardians of the cave had not a shilling among them all, they despised enriching themselves by an act of treachery. How painful it is to add, what the editor has been assured is true, that one of these magnanimous poor fellows was afterwards hanged for stealing a cow ! On the ladder he declared that he had never taken either sheep or cow from any of his own clan or their friends, nor from any man who had not risen against the house of Stuart. Consequently,
all attempts to persuade him to acknowledge the justice of his sentence were fruitless."
The ballad was once much longer and more particular; but Mr Thomson shortened it to suit a page, and, as usual, I have no original copy.
Now cease of auld ferlies to tell us,
That happen'd nane liying kens when ;
Wha lived in the wild Highland glen.
For lost was Culloden's sad day;
And O, but poor Donald was wae!
They keekit out o'er the wild correi,
The towers of Clan-Ranald were gone;
Lochaber was herried and lone!
The last o' their shealings to see;
“ There's naething but sorrow for me!"
Now our three noble lads are in hiding,
Afar in Glen-Moriston's height;
And the moon is their candle by night.
As looking o'er ravage and death, And blamed their ain prince, Charlie Stuart,
For causing the Highlands sic skaith.
Ae night they sat fearfu' o' danger,
And snappit their kebbuck fu' keen, When in came a stately young stranger,
As ragged as man e'er was seen. They hadna weel lookit around them
Till tears cam happing like rain“ You're welcome, young Dugald M'Cluny;
For a' you see here is your ain !"
Each kend the brave wreck of Culloden,
But dared not to mention his name, Lest one of the three had betray'd him,
And cover'd their country wi' shame.
They served him with eager devotion,
They clad him from shoulder to tae, Spread his board from the moor and the ocean,
And watch'd o'er him a' the lang day.
They had not a plack in their coffer,
They had not a ewe on the brae, Yet kend o’mair goud in their offer
Than they could have carried away. Now crack o' your Grecian and Roman!
We've cast them a' back in the shade; Gie me a leal-hearted M ́Donald,
Wi' nought but his dirk and his plaid !
The sun shines sweet on the heather,
When tempests are over and gane; But honour shines bright in all weather,
Through poverty, hardship, and pain. Though we had ne'er heard o' Clan-Ronald's
Nor gallant Glengarry's wild sway, The names of the loyal M‘Donalds
Had flourish'd for ever and aye !