On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!

Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal: 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before.

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field and his feet to the foe, And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.

A chieftain to the Highlands bound Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry!"

To is to conquer our fate.

Few, few shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.