Towards the shore of the ocean against the cold wind of the
late night. Charles came with radiance to Scotland, tired: there
was no star on his bosom or guard travelling with him but the
knowingness of the blue eyes radiating and like a diamond in
the night of the young woman was sad and in pain about Charles
leaving his country and heavy was her sigh and sore the tears
from her eyes when she saw the sailing gallery nearing land. (no punctuation

The moon was swimming over the heights of the jutting ben
and the dancing rays of the heavy leaping waves, suddenly
she noticed like a wounded virgin, to the shadow on her white
countenance under the eye of the clouds, to the moon and
the stars themselves blue-carpeted, the sighing of the wind
genially but sad, leaving us; the complaining of the ocean when
breaking on the massive rocks, the devastation on Scotland
where the brave were killed

Flora and Charles stood on the shore of Dùn Caoil with them,
and heart-torn emaciated their countenance with pain, there
was no word from his lips but crying without respite, and they
were face-to-face crying with love, when the gallery arrived it
was the young lady that began broken voices and inept
communication, like an un-tuned disorderly harp, the beautiful
young ladies were anguished and agonised.

Charles, son of Seumas, son of Seumas of justice, as your
crown was wounded like a coward of no avail, if the brave heroes are wounded they will not rise or wake up, a closed
eye nightmare the darkness of death, they wont take the
sword in the camp against the enemy, they wont scatter the
Saxon men like stubble in the fields, they will not see the flag
and they won't capture it, the sea, death, leaving us all apart.

So Charles, son of Seumas, if you have to leave us that the
Son of God will look at you from the 'teeth of the wicked' that
he guides the sailing galley through wild countries, safely,
swiftly and adroitly to a place of refuge, and that the heavenly
lights will shine brightly upon you at night, full sailed (easily)
guiding you to a country that you do not need, as a sad young
man under the mantle of being a rebel, the wild dress is not to
their liking.

O Scotland the time has come for your head to be pouring
Your Prince away in exile from you and you soaking in the
grave, the murmuring of the pipes are refusing to produce
music for you, and your so-sweet harpers are disdainful all the#
time, the fiddlers of best wood are silent, they will not
pour praise on the bosom of Charles, they will not waken the
great heroes that died in the wilderness, but stir from death#at the point of greatest need.

But he stopped and with red lips he kissed the
young woman, and wiping kindly, the tears from her
eye (said) "Take heart Flora from young Frenchman,
that not a few will rise with me to win my crown, the
less radical youths in Scotland who awake, with their
outfits of variegated tartans and (my) cunning army, the
spirit of the great plunders with fierce screeching will turn to
torment, and lame troopers without strength will be in every
place.

But he left her on her own crying on the shore, and he went
away in the boat and whilst becoming angry, his whole corpus
filling with grief about to burst, sorrowful, distressed without
happiness or music, the night dew lay on the beautiful pure
woman, and her mind heaving on the ocean with Charles, she
never saw him again to recompense for the injuries, but her
love for him grew each day she was alive.

(done)