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George Gordon Byron - Lachin Y Gair
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Away, ye gay landscapes, ye garden of roses! 
In you let the minions of luxury rove; 
Restore me to the rocks, where the snowflake reposes, 
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love: 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 
Round their white summits though elements war; 
Though cataracts foam `stead of smooth-flowi ng fountains, 
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wandered; 
My cap was teh bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; 
On chieftains long perished my memory pondered, 
As daily I strode through the pine-covered  glade; 
I sought not my home till the day`s dying glory 
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; 
For fancy was cheered by traditional story, 
Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 

"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices 
Rise on the night-rollin g breath of the gale?" 
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 
And rides on the wind, o`er his own Highland vale. 
Rouch Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, 
Winter presides in his cold icy car: 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers; 
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. 

"Ill-starred , though brave, did no visions foreboding 
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?" 
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, 
Victory crowned not your fall with applause: 
Still were you happy in death`s earthy slumber, 
You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar; 
The pibroch resounds, to the piper`s loud number, 
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 

Years have rolled on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, 
Years must elapse ere I tread you again: 
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, 
Yet still are you dearer than Albion`s plain. 
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic 
To one who has roved o`er the mountains afar: 
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic! 
The steep frowning glories of the dark Loch na Garr.
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