Sidor som bilder

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,

Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the

mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.

Moor'd in the risted rock,

Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;

Menteith and Breadalbane, then,

Echo bis praise agen,
“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe !”

Proudly our pibroch has thrill'd in Glen Fruin,

And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied ; Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin, And the best of Loch-lomond lie dead on her side.

Widow and Saxon maid

Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;

Lennox and Leven-glen

Shake when they hear agen, “ Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”

peculiar exploit, or from some peculiarity of habit or appearance. The line of the text therefore signifies,

Black Roderick, the descendant of Alpine. The song itself is intended as an imitation of the jorrams, or boat songs, of the Highlanders, which were usually composed in honour of a favourite chief. They are so adapted as to keep time with the sweep of the oars, and it is easy to distinguish between those intended to be sung to the oars of a galley, where the stroke is lengthened and doubled, as it were, and those which were timed to the rowers of an ordinary boat.

'[See Appendix, Note E.]

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands !

Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green Pine ! 0! that the rose-bud that graces yon islands, Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!

O that some seedling gem,

Worthy such noble stem, Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow!

Loud should Clan-Alpine then

Ring from her deepmost glen,
“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”

With all her joyful female band,
Had Lady Margaret sought the strand.
Loose on the breeze their tresses flew,
And high their snowy arms they threw,
As echoing back, with shrill acclaim
And chorus wild, the Chieftain's name;
While, prompt to please, with mother's ar!
The darling passion of his heart,
The Dame callid Ellen to the strand,
To greet her kinsman ere he land:
“Come, loiterer, come! a Douglas thou,
And shun to wreathe a victor's brow?"-.
Reluctantly and slow, the maid
The unwelcome summoning obey'd, ..
And when a distant bugle rung,
In the mid-path aside she sprung

List, Allan-bane! From mainland cast,
I hear my father's signal blast.
Be ours,” she cried, “ the skiff to guide,
And waft him from the mountain-side."
Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright,
She darted to her shallop light,

And, eagerly while Roderick scann'd,
For her dear form, his mother's band,
The islet far behind her lay,
And she had landed in the bay.

XXII. Some feelings are to mortals given, With less of earth in them than heaven : And if there be a human tear From passion's dross refined and clear, A tear so limpid and so meek, It would not stain an angel's cheek, 'Tis that which pious fathers shed Upon a duteous daughter's head! And as the Douglas to his breast His darling Ellen closely pressid, Such holy drops her tresses steep'd, Though 't was an hero's eye that weep'd Nor while on Ellen's faltering tongue Her filial welcomes crowded hung, Mark'd she, that fear (affection's proof) Still held a graceful youth aloof; No! not till Douglas named his name, Although the youth was Malcolm Græme.

XXIII. Allan, with wistful look the while, Mark'd Roderick landing on the isle; His master piteously he eyed, Then gazed upon the Chieftain's pride, Then dash'd, with hasty hand, away From his dimm’d eye the gathering spray; And Douglas, as his hand he laid On Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said,

“ Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spy
In my poor follower's glistening eye?
I'll tell thee:- he recalls the day,
When in my praise he led the lay
O’er the arch'd gate of Bothwell proud,
While any a minstrel answer'd loud,
When Percy's Norman pennon, won
In bloody field, before me shone,
And twice ten knights, the least a name
As mighty as yon Chief may claim,
Gracing my pomp, behind me came.
Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud
Was I of all that marshall'd crowd,
Though the waned crescent own'd my night.
And in my train troop'd lord and knight,
Though Blantyre hymn'd her holiest lays,
And Bothwell's bards flung back my praise,
As when this old man's silent tear,
And this poor maid's affection dear,
A welcome give more kind and true,
Than aught my better fortunes knew.
Forgive, my friend, a father's boast,
O! it out-beggars all I lost !"

Delightful praise !-like summer rose,
That brighter in the dew-drop glows,
The bashful maiden's cheek appear’d,
For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard.
The Alush of shame-faced joy to hide,
The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide;
The loved caresses of the maid
The dogs with crouch and whimper paid :

And, at her whistle, on her hand
The falcon took his favourite stand,
Closed his dark wing, relax'd his eye,
Nor, though unhooded, sought to fly.
And, trust, while in such guise she stood,
Like fabled Goddess of the Wood,
That if a father's partial thought
O'erweigh'd her worth, and beauty aught,
Well might the lover's judgment fail
To balance with a juster scale ;
For with each secret glance he stole,
The fond enthusiast sent his soul.

XXV. Of stature tall, and slender frame, But firmly knit, was Malcolm Græme. The belted plaid and tartan hose Did ne'er more graceful limbs disclose; His flaxen hair, of sunny hue, Curld closely round his bonnet blue. Train'd to the chase, his eagle eye The ptarmigan in snow could spy: Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath, He knew, through Lennox and Menteith; Vain was the bound of dark-brown doe, When Malcolm bent his sounding bow, And scarce that doe, though wing’d with fear, Outstripp'd in speed the mountaineer: Right up Ben-Lomond could he press, And not a sob his toil confess. His form accorded with a mind Lively and ardent, frank and kind; A blither heart, till Ellen came, Did never love nor sorrow tame;

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