The last of the Stuarts has sunk in the
grave,
And their name and their lineage is gone;
And the land of the stranger a resting place
gave
To him that was heir to a throne.
To him that was heir to a throne.
But the noon of their glory was soon
overspread,
And he sun he grew dark with dismay;
And the clouds of misfortune hung over
their head,
Till their sceptre had vanished away.
Till their sceptre had vanished away.
O more for their cause shall the trumpet be
blown,
Nor their followers crowd to the field;
Their hopes were all wreck’d when
Culloden was won,
And the fate of their destiny seal’d.
And the fate of their destiny seal’d.
Cold, is that heart which could stand o’er
his grave,
Nor think of their fate with a sigh,
That the glory of kings, like a wreck from
the wave,
Here lone and deserted must lie.
Here lone and deserted must lie.