I own my expectation,—­
      ’Tis this has roused my apathy,
    That He who rules creation
      May change the dismal hap of thee,
    And hasten to restore thee
      In safety from thy danger,
    To thine own, in joy and glory,
      To save us from the stranger. 
    With princely grace to give redress,
      Nor a taunt to suffer back again;
    The fell Monro has felt thy blow,
      And should he dare attack again,
    Then as he flew, he ’ll run anew,
      The flames to quench he ’ll labour on,
    Of castle fired—­when Staghead
      High raises his cabar on!

    I ’ve seen thee o’er the lowly,
      A gracious chieftain ever,
    The Catach[145] self below thee,
      And the Gallach[145] cower’d for cover;
    But ever more their striving,
      When claim’d respect thine eye,
    Thy scourge corrected, driving
      To other lands to fly. 
    Thy loyal crew of clansmen true,
      No panic fear shall turn them,
    With steel-cap, blade, and skene array’d,
      Their banning foes they spurn them. 
    Clan-Shimei[146] then may dare them,
      They ’ll fly, had each a sabre on,
    Needs but a look—­when Staghead
      Once raises his cabar on.

    Mounts not the wing a fouler thing,
      Than thy vaunted crest, the eagle,[147] O! 
    Inglorious chief! to boast the thief,
      That forays with the beagle, O! 
    For shame! preferr’d that ravening bird![148]
      My song shall raise the mountain-deer;
    The prey he scorns, the carcase spurns,
      He loves the cress, the fountain cheer. 
    His lodge is in the forest;—­
      While carion-flesh enticing
    Thy greedy maw, thou buriest
      Thou kite of prey! thy claws in
    The putrid corse of famish’d horse,
      The greedy hound a-striving
    To rival thee in gluttony,
      Both at the bowels riving. 
    Thou called the true bird![149]—­Never,
      Thou foster child of evil,[150] ha! 
    How ill match with thy feather[151]
      The talons[152] of thy devilry! 
    But when thy foray preys on
      Our harmless flocks, so dastardly,
    How often has the shepherd
      With trusty baton master’d thee;
    Well in thy fright hast timed thy flight,
      Else, not alone, belabouring,
    He ’d gored thee with the Staghead,
      Up-raising his cabar on.[153]

    Woe worth the world, deceiver—­
      So false, so fair of seeming! 
    We ’ve seen the noble Siphort[154]
      With all his war-notes[155] screaming;
    When not a chief in Albain,
      Mac-Ailein’s[156] self though backing him,
    Could face his frown—­as Staghead
      Arose with his cabar on.