Lament for the Last of the Seaforths

In vain the bright course of thy talents to wrong
Fate deadn'd thine ear and imprison'd thy tongue,
For bright o'er all her obstructions arose
The glow of genius they cold not oppose;
And who, in the land of the Saxon, or Gael,
Might match with Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail?

Thy sons rose around thee in light and in love.
All a father could hope, all a friend could approve;
What 'vails it the tale of thy sorrows to tell?
In the springtime of youth and promise they fell!
Of the line of MacKenneth remains not a male,
To bear the proud name of the Chief of Kintail.

And thou, gentle Dame, who must bear, to thy grief,
For thy clan and thy country the cares of a Chief,
Whom brief rolling moons in six changes have left,
Of thy husband and father and brethren bereft;
To thine ear of affection, how sad is the hail
That salutes thee -the heir of the line of Kintail!

Na 'm biodh an t'earball na bu ruighne bhïodh mo sgialachd na b' fhaïde.


Sir Walter Scott