The Book of Scottish Song/Callum-a-Glen

Callum-a-Glen.

[James Hogg.—Air, "Malcolm of the Glen."]

Was ever old warrior of suffering so weary?
Was ever the wild beast so bayed in his den?
The Southron blood hounds lie in kennels so near me,
That death would be freedom to Callum-a-Glen.
My chief they have slain, and of stay have bereft me,
My sons are all slain and my daughters have left me;
No child to protect me, where once there was ten,
And woe to the grey hairs of Callum-a-Glen.

The homes of my kindred are blazing to heaven,
The bright sun of morning has blushed of the view;
The moon has stood still on the verge of the even,
To wipe from her pale cheek the tint of the dew:
For the dew it lies red on the vales of Lochaber;
It sprinkles the cot and it flows from the pen.
The pride of my country is fallen for ever!
Death, hast thou no shaft for old Callum-a-Glen?

The sun in his glory has looked on our sorrow,
The stars have wept blood over hamlet and lea:
Oh, is there no day-spring for Scotland? no morrow
Of bright renovation for souls of the free?
Yes: one above all has beheld our devotion;
Our valour and faith are not hid from his ken;
The day is abiding of stern retribution
On all the proud foes of old Callum-a-Glen.

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