Donal Campbell Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: ABCDEFGHAEAG IJAEEEKE CLMACANA CMOEEAME FMPFQMEF AOCMCEQM OFMAQEOA FACOMAOO

DONAL' CAMPBELLA
Donal' BaneB
sailed away across theC
oceanD
With the tartans of ClanE
Gordon to the Indies'F
distant shoreG
But on Dargai's lonely hillH
side Donal' CampbellA
met the foemanE
And the glen of AtholA
Moray will never see him moreG
-
O the wailing of the women O the storm ofI
bitter sorrowJ
Sweeping like the wintry torrent thro' AtholA
Moray's glenE
When the black word reached the clansmenE
that young Donal' Bane had fallenE
In the red glare of the battle with the gallantK
Gordon menE
-
Far from home and native sheiling with theC
sun of India o'er himL
Blazing down its cruel hatred on the whiteM
faced men belowA
Stood young Donal' with his comrades like theC
hound of ghostly FingalA
Eager waiting for the summons to leap upN
against the foeA
-
Hark at last the pipes are pealing out theC
welcome Caber FeidhM
And wild the red blood rushes thro' everyO
Highland veinE
They breathe the breath of battle the childrenE
of the GaelA
And fiercely up the hillside they charge andM
charge againE
-
And the grey eye of the Highlands now isF
dark as blackest midnightM
The history of their fathers is written on eachP
faceF
Of border creach and foray of never yieldongQ
conflictM
Of all the memories shrouding a stern unconE
quered raceF
-
And up the hillside up the mountain whileA
the war pipes shrilly clamourO
Bayonet thrusting broadsword cleaving theC
Northern soldiers foughtM
Till the sun of India saw them victors o' er theC
dusky foemanE
For who can stay the Celtic hand when CelticQ
blood is hotM
-
But the corse of many a clansman from the farO
off Scottish HighlandsF
'Mid the rocks of savage Dargai is lying coldM
and stillA
With the death dew on its forehead and youngQ
Donal' Campbell 's tartanE
Bears a deeper stain of purple than the heatherO
of the hillA
-
Mourn him Mourn him thro' the mountainsF
wail him women of Clan CampbellA
Let the Coronach be sounded tii it reach theC
Indian shoreO
For your beautiful has fallen in the foremostM
of the battleA
And the glen of Athol Moray will never seeO
him moreO

William Henry Drummond



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