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11 “Sleep sound my sweet babe,

There’s nought to alarm thee,

The sons of the valley

No power have to harm thee.

I’ll sing thee to rest

In the balloch untrodden,

With a coronach sad

For the slain of Culloden.

"The brave were betray’d,

And the tyrant is daring

To trample and waste us,

Unpitying, unsparing,

Thy mother no voice has,

No feeling that changes,

No word, sign, or song,

But the lesson of vangeance.

“I’ll tell thee, my son,

How your laurels are withering;

I'll gird on my sword

When our clansmen are gathering;

I’ll bid thee go forth

In the cause of true honour,

And never return

Till thy country hath won her.

Our tower of devotion

Is the home of the reaver;

The pride of the ocean

Is fallen for ever;

The pine of the forest,

That time could not weaken,

Is trode in the dust,

And its honours are shaken.