11
“Sleep sound my sweet babe,
There’s nought to alarm thee,
The sons of the valley
No power have to harm thee.
I’ll sing thee to rest
In the balloch untrodden,
With a coronach sad
For the slain of Culloden.
"The brave were betray’d,
And the tyrant is daring
To trample and waste us,
Unpitying, unsparing,
Thy mother no voice has,
No feeling that changes,
No word, sign, or song,
But the lesson of vangeance.
“I’ll tell thee, my son,
How your laurels are withering;
I'll gird on my sword
When our clansmen are gathering;
I’ll bid thee go forth
In the cause of true honour,
And never return
Till thy country hath won her.
Our tower of devotion
Is the home of the reaver;
The pride of the ocean
Is fallen for ever;
The pine of the forest,
That time could not weaken,
Is trode in the dust,
