Glen Collection of printed music > Printed text > Scottish songs > Volume 1

188
Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door ;
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.
The wretched owner sees afar
His all become the prey of war ;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks ;
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain ;
Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it, then, in every clime,
Through the wide-spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shines with undiminish'd blaze ?
Thy towering spirit now is broke ;
Thy neck is bended to the yoke :
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancour fell.
The rural pipe and meny lay
No more shall cheer the happy day ;
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night :
No strains but those of sorrow flow,
And nought is heard but sounds of wo ;
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.
Oh, baneful curse ! oh, fatal morn,
Accursed to ages yet unborn !
The sons against their fathers stood.
The parent shed his children's blood ;
Yet when the rage of battle ceased,
The victor's soul was not appeased ;