Life of Flora Macdonald and her adventures with Prince Charles

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Like leaves by the tempest all scattered abroad,
So here were ye scattered around,
And here were ye piled high on the red sward,
Still grasping in death each deeply dyed sword
That had reddened the cold murky ground.
And when through your ranks like an angel of death,
Poured the fierce storm of iron hail,
That levelled your bravest all low as the heath
As the forest leaves strewn by the whirlwind's wild breath,
Even then your stout hearts did not quail !
" To the charge, to the charge," was your answering cry,
" Lead us on, lead us on, 'gainst the foe,
Why stand we inactive thus tamely to die ? "
All powerless to fight, and disdaining to fly —
To the charge, to the charge ! — weal or woe.
Ah ! ne'er in all time, shall that charge be forgot,
Inscribed on the annals of fame ;
Your souls passed away all undimmed by one blot
Of one selfish thought from that blood-reeking spot,
Which still is enbalmed with your name.