No more by thy margin, dark Carron,
Shall Wallace in solitude, wander,
When tranquil the moon shines afar on
Thy heart-stirring wildness and grandeur.
For lost are to me
Thy beauties for ever,
Since fallen in thee
Lie the faithful and free,
To waken, ah, never!
And I, thus defeated, must suffer
My country's reproach; yet, forsaken,
A home to me nature may offer
Among her green forests of braken.
But home who can find
For heart-rending sorrow?
The wound who can bind
When thus pierced is the mind
By fate's ruthless arrow?
'Tis death that alone ever frees us
Of woes too profound to be spoken,
And nought but the grave ever eases
The pangs of a heart that is broken.
Then, oh! that my blood
In Carron's dark water
Had mix'd with the flood
Of the warriors' shed
'Mid torrents of slaughter.
For woe to the day when desponding
I read in thine aspect the story
Of those that were slain when defending
Their homes and their mountains of glory.
And curst be the guile
Of treacherous knavery
That throws o'er our isle
In its tyranny vile
The mantle of slavery.