What though my winged hours of bliss have been

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!"

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.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

To is to conquer our fate.

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.

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!