LINES BY CAPTAIN WAVERLEY ON RECEIVING HIS COMMISSION IN LATE, when the autumn evening fell But distant winds began to wake, And bade his surge in thunder speak. Yet, with a stern delight and strange, Upon the ruin'd tower I stood, So, on the idle dreams of youth As fair, as flitting, and as frail, Be each gay form that glided by, Davie GellatleY sings False love, and hast thou play'd me this In summer among the flowers? I will repay thee back again In winter among the showers. Unless you turn again; THE Knight's to the mountain Her garland to bind. Has moss on the floor, That the step of Lord William Be silent and sure. Chap. IX. SCENE-Luckie Macleary's Tavern. BARON BRADWARDINE sings:MON cœur volage, dit-elle, N'est pas pour vous, garçon; Mais pour un homme de guerre, Qui a barbe au menton. Lon, Lon, Laridon. Qui porte chapeau à plume, Lon, Lon, Laridon. The Lady she sate in Saint Swithin's Chair, The dew of the night has damp'd her hair: Her cheek was pale-but resolved and high Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye. She mutter'd the spell of Swithin bold, When his naked foot traced the midnight wold, When he stopp'd the Hag as she rode the night, And bade her descend, and her promise plight. He that dare sit on Saint Swithin's Chair, When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air, Questions three, when he speaks the spell, He may ask, and she must tell. The Baron has been with King Robert his liege, These three long years, in battle and siege; News are there none of his weal or his woe, And fain the Lady his fate would know. She shudders and stops as the charm she speaks ; Is it the moody owl that shrieks? scream, The voice of the Demon who haunts the stream? The moan of the wind sunk silent and low, And the roaring torrent had ceased to flow; The calm was more dreadful than The dirk and the target lie sordid GELLATLEY sings: YOUNG men will love thee more fair and more fast; with dust, Heard ye so merry the little bird sing? Be mute every string, and be hush'd Old men's love the longest will last, And the throstle-cock's head is under That shall bid us remember the fame every tone, that is flown. O, sprung from the kings who in Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow, And resistless in union rush down on the foe. True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel, Mac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake, For honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake! Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake! 'Tis the bugle- but not for the chase is the call; Place thy targe on thy shoulder and 'Tis the pibroch's shrill summonsbut not to the hall. burnish thy steel! Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy 'Tis the summons of heroes for con bugle's bold swell, Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell! Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail, Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale! May the race of Clan-Gillean, the Let the clan of grey Fingon, whose offspring has given Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven, Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri More, To launch the long galley, and stretch to the oar! How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey ! How the race of wrong'd Alpine and murder'd Glencoe Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe! Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew And thou, brave tenant of the tomb! These owe their birth to genial May; Yet who, in Fortune's summer-shine Though darken'd ere its noontide Be thine the Tree whose dauntless boughs Brave summer's drought and winter's gloom! Rome bound with oak her patriots' As Albyn shadows Wogan's tomb. GELLATLEY sings :— [THEY came upon us in the night, And brake my bower and slew my knight; And can their worth be type of My servants a' for life did flee thine? No! for, 'mid storms of Fate opposing, Still higher swell'd thy dauntless heart, And, while Despair the scene was closing, Commenced thy brief but brilliant part. 'Twas then thou sought'st on Albyn's hill (When England's sons the strife resign'd) A rugged race, resisting still, And unsubdued, though unrefined. Thy death's hour heard no kindred wail, No holy knell thy requiem rung; Thy mourners were the plaided Gael, Thy dirge the clamorous pibroch sung. And left us in extremitie. They slew my knight to me sae dear; The moon may set, the sun may rise, But follow, follow me, Each in his shroud, And the red moon peeps dim through Follow, follow me; That treads by night the dead man's lea. |