Oh! Tell me, Harper, wherefore flow
Thy wayward notes of wail and woe
Far down the desert of Glencoe
Where non may list their melody?
Say, harp'st thou to the mist that fly
Or to the dun deer glancing by
Or to the eagle, that from high
Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy?

No, not to these, for they have rest
The mist-wreath has the mountain crest
The stag his lair, the erne her nest
Abode of lone security
But those for whom I pour the lay
Not wild wood deep, nor mountain grey
Not this deep dell that shrouds from day
Could screen from treach'rous cruelty

The hand that mingled in the meal
At midnight drew the felon steel
And gave the host's kind breast to feel
Meed for his hospitality
The friendly heart which warm'd that hand
At midnight arm'd it with a brand
That bade destruction's flames expand
Their red and fearful blazonry
Long have my harp's best notes been gone
Few are its strings, and faint their tone
They can but sound in desert lone
Their grey-hair'd master's misery
Were each grey hair a minstrel string
Each chord should imprecations fling
'Till startled Scotland loud should ring
"Revenge for blood and treachery!"