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William Henry Drummond - Donal Campbell
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DONAL` CAMPBELL
     —Donal` 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!
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