All this you have lost; but, since your curiosity is not satisfied, I judge, from the distant sound of my brother's whistle, I may have time to sing the concluding stanzas before he comes to laugh at my translation.' Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake! 'T is the bugle--but not for the chase is the call; 'T is the pibroch's shrill summons--but not to the hall.
'T is the summons of heroes for conquest or death, When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath: They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe, To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.
Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire! May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire! Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore, Or die like your sires, and endure it no more!.