Hew Morrison Collection > Celtic garland

The cormorant roost
On liis rock of the sea ;
But oh ! there is one
Whose hard fate T deplore,
Nor house, ha', nor hame,
In this country has he.
The conflict is past,
And our name is no moi'e ;
There's nought left hut sorrow
For Scotland and me.
The target is torn
From the arm of tlie just.
The helmet is cleft
On the brow of the brave,
The claymore for ever
In darkness must rust ;
But red is tlie sword
Of the sti-anger and slave.
The hoof of the horse,
And the plume of the proud,
Have trod o'er the plumes
On the bonnet of blue.
Why slept the red Ijolt
In the breast of the cloud,
When tyranny revell'd
In blood of the true Ì
Farewell, ray young hero !
The gallant and good Ì
The crown of thy fathers
Is torn from thy lirow.