Cream of Tannahill's Songs (3)/Wallace's Lament
For other versions of this work, see Wallace's Lament.
WALLACE'S LAMENT.
Thou dark winding Carron, once pleasing to see,
To me thou can'st never give pleasure again,
My brave Caledonians lie low on the lea,
And thy streams are deep—ting'd with the blood of the slain.
To me thou can'st never give pleasure again,
My brave Caledonians lie low on the lea,
And thy streams are deep—ting'd with the blood of the slain.
Ah! base-hearted treach'ry has doomed our undoing,
My poor bleeding country, what more can I do?
Ev'n Valour looks pale o'er the red field of ruin,
And Freedom beholds her best warriors laid low.
My poor bleeding country, what more can I do?
Ev'n Valour looks pale o'er the red field of ruin,
And Freedom beholds her best warriors laid low.
Farewell, ye dear partners of peril!—farewell!
Though buried ye lie in one wide bloody grave,
Your deeds shall ennoble the place where ye fell.
And your names be enroll'd with the sons of the brave.
Though buried ye lie in one wide bloody grave,
Your deeds shall ennoble the place where ye fell.
And your names be enroll'd with the sons of the brave.
But I, a poor outcast, in exile must wander,
Perhaps, like a traitor, ignobly must die!
On thy wrongs, O my country! indignant I pondor,—
Ah! woe to the hour when thy Wallace must fly!
Perhaps, like a traitor, ignobly must die!
On thy wrongs, O my country! indignant I pondor,—
Ah! woe to the hour when thy Wallace must fly!