sailed away across the
With the tartans of Clan
Gordon, to the Indies’
distant shore,
But on Dargai’s lonely hill-
side, Donal’ Campbell
met the foeman,
And the glen of Athol
Moray will never see him more!
O! the wailing of the women, O! the storm of
bitter sorrow
Sweeping like the wintry torrent thro’ Athol
Moray’s glen
When the black word reached the clansmen,
that young Donal’ Bane had fallen
In the red glare of the battle, with the gallant
Gordon men!
Far from home and native sheiling, with the
sun of India o’er him
Blazing down its cruel hatred on the white-
faced men below
Stood young Donal’ with his comrades, like the
hound of ghostly Fingal
Eager, waiting for the summons to leap up
against the foe-
Hark! at last! the pipes are pealing out the
welcome Caber Feidh
And wild the red blood rushes thro’ every
Highland vein
They breathe the breath of battle, the children
of the Gael,
And fiercely up the hillside, they charge and
charge again-
And the grey eye of the Highlands, now is
dark as blackest midnight,
The history of their fathers is written on each
Of border creach and foray, of never yieldong
Of all the memories shrouding a stern uncon-
quered race!
And up the hillside, up the mountain, while
the war-pipes shrilly clamour
Bayonet thrusting, broadsword cleaving, the
Northern soldiers fought
Till the sun of India saw them victors o’ er the
dusky foeman,
For who can stay the Celtic hand when Celtic
blood is hot?
But the corse of many a clansman from the far-
off Scottish Highlands
‘Mid the rocks of savage Dargai is lying cold
and still
With the death-dew on its forehead, and young
Donal’ Campbell ‘s tartan
Bears a deeper stain of purple than the heather
of the hill!
Mourn him! Mourn him thro’ the mountains,
wail him women of Clan Campbell!
Let the Coronach be sounded tii it reach the
Indian shore
For your beautiful has fallen in the foremost
of the battle
And the glen of Athol Moray will never see
him more!

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