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William Henry Drummond (1854-1907) Donal'Campbell Bane-- sailed away across the ocean 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 face, Of border creach and foray, of never yieldong conflict 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! |
