A Prince went down the banks of Dee
That widen out from bleak Braemar,
To drive the deer that wander free
Amidst the pines of Lochnagar.
And stepping on beneath the birks
On the road-side he found a spot,
Which told of pibrochs, kilts, and dirks,
And wars the courtiers had forgot;
Where with the streams, as each alone
Down to the gathering river runs,
Each on one heap to cast a stone,
Came twice three hundred Farquharsons.
They raised that pile to keep for ever
The memory of the loyal clan;
Then, grudging not their vain endeavour,
Fell at Culloden to a man.
And she, whose grandsire's uncle slew
Those dwellers on the banks of Dee,
Sighed for those tender hearts and true,
And whispered: "Who would die for me?"
Oh, lady, turn thee southward. Show
Thy standard on thine own Thames-side;
Let us be called to meet thy foe,
Our Kith be pledged, our honour tried.
Now, on the stone by Albert laid,
We'll build a pile as high as theirs,
So sworn to bring our Sovereign aid,
If not with war-cries, yet with prayers.