At morn the blackcock trims his jetty wing,note'Tis morning prompts the linnet's blithest lay,All Nature's children feel the matin springOf life reviving, with reviving day;5And while yon little bark glides down the bay,Wafting the stranger on his way again,Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel gray,noteAnd sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain,Mixed with the sounding harp, O white-haired Allan-bane!
At morn the blackcock trims his jetty wing,note'Tis morning prompts the linnet's blithest lay,All Nature's children feel the matin springOf life reviving, with reviving day;5And while yon little bark glides down the bay,Wafting the stranger on his way again,Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel gray,noteAnd sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain,Mixed with the sounding harp, O white-haired Allan-bane!
10"Not faster yonder rowers' mightFlings from their oars the spray,Not faster yonder rippling bright,That tracks the shallop's course in light,Melts in the lake away,15Than men from memory eraseThe benefits of former days;Then, stranger, go! good speed the while,Nor think again of the lonely isle."High place to thee in royal court,20High place in battle line,Good hawk and hound for silvan sport,Where beauty sees the brave resort;The honored meed be thine!True be thy sword, thy friend sincere,25Thy lady constant, kind and dear,And lost in love, and friendship's smileBe memory of the lonely isle.
10"Not faster yonder rowers' mightFlings from their oars the spray,Not faster yonder rippling bright,That tracks the shallop's course in light,Melts in the lake away,15Than men from memory eraseThe benefits of former days;Then, stranger, go! good speed the while,Nor think again of the lonely isle.
"High place to thee in royal court,20High place in battle line,Good hawk and hound for silvan sport,Where beauty sees the brave resort;The honored meed be thine!True be thy sword, thy friend sincere,25Thy lady constant, kind and dear,And lost in love, and friendship's smileBe memory of the lonely isle.
"But if beneath yon southern skyA plaided stranger roam30Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh,And sunken cheek and heavy eye,Pine for his Highland home;Then, warrior, then be thine to showThe care that soothes a wanderer's woe;35Remember then thy hap ere while,A stranger in the lonely isle."Or if on life's uncertain mainMishap shall mar thy sail;If faithful, wise, and brave in vain,40Woe, want, and exile thou sustainBeneath the fickle gale;Waste not a sigh on fortune changed,On thankless courts, or friends estranged,But come where kindred worth shall smile,45To greet thee in the lonely isle."
"But if beneath yon southern skyA plaided stranger roam30Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh,And sunken cheek and heavy eye,Pine for his Highland home;Then, warrior, then be thine to showThe care that soothes a wanderer's woe;35Remember then thy hap ere while,A stranger in the lonely isle.
"Or if on life's uncertain mainMishap shall mar thy sail;If faithful, wise, and brave in vain,40Woe, want, and exile thou sustainBeneath the fickle gale;Waste not a sigh on fortune changed,On thankless courts, or friends estranged,But come where kindred worth shall smile,45To greet thee in the lonely isle."
As died the sounds upon the tide,The shallop reached the mainland side,And ere his onward way he took,The stranger cast a lingering look,50Where easily his eye might reachThe Harper on the islet beach,Reclined against a blighted tree,As wasted, gray, and worn as he.To minstrel meditation given,55His reverend brow was raised to heaven,As from the rising sun to claimA sparkle of inspiring flame.His hand, reclined upon the wire,Seemed watching the awakening fire;60So still he sat, as those who waitTill judgment speak the doom of fate;So still, as if no breeze might dareTo lift one lock of hoary hair;So still, as life itself were fled,65In the last sound his harp had sped.
As died the sounds upon the tide,The shallop reached the mainland side,And ere his onward way he took,The stranger cast a lingering look,50Where easily his eye might reachThe Harper on the islet beach,Reclined against a blighted tree,As wasted, gray, and worn as he.To minstrel meditation given,55His reverend brow was raised to heaven,As from the rising sun to claimA sparkle of inspiring flame.His hand, reclined upon the wire,Seemed watching the awakening fire;60So still he sat, as those who waitTill judgment speak the doom of fate;So still, as if no breeze might dareTo lift one lock of hoary hair;So still, as life itself were fled,65In the last sound his harp had sped.
Upon a rock with lichens wild,Beside him Ellen sat and smiled—Smiled she to see the stately drakeLead forth his fleet upon the lake,note70While her vexed spaniel, from the beachBayed at the prize beyond his reach?Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows,Why deepened on her cheek the rose?Forgive, forgive, Fidelity!75Perchance the maiden smiled to seeYon parting lingerer wave adieu,And stop and turn to wave anew;And, lovely ladies, ere your ireCondemn the heroine of my lyre,80Show me the fair would scorn to spy,And prize such conquest of her eye!
Upon a rock with lichens wild,Beside him Ellen sat and smiled—Smiled she to see the stately drakeLead forth his fleet upon the lake,note70While her vexed spaniel, from the beachBayed at the prize beyond his reach?Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows,Why deepened on her cheek the rose?Forgive, forgive, Fidelity!75Perchance the maiden smiled to seeYon parting lingerer wave adieu,And stop and turn to wave anew;And, lovely ladies, ere your ireCondemn the heroine of my lyre,80Show me the fair would scorn to spy,And prize such conquest of her eye!
While yet he loitered on the spot,It seemed as Ellen marked him not;But when he turned him to the glade,85One courteous parting sign she made;And after, oft the knight would say,That not when prize of festal dayWas dealt him by the brightest fair,Who e'er wore jewel in her hair,90So highly did his bosom swell,As at that simple mute farewell.Now with a trusty mountain-guide,And his dark stag-hounds by his side,He parts—the maid, unconscious still,95Watched him wind slowly round the hill;But when his stately form was hid,The guardian in her bosom chid—"Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid!"'Twas thus upbraiding conscience said—100"Not so had Malcolm idly hungOn the smooth phrase of southern tongue;Not so had Malcolm strained his eyeAnother step than thine to spy.Wake, Allan-bane," aloud she cried,105To the old Minstrel by her side—"Arouse thee from thy moody dream!I'll give thy harp heroic theme,And warm thee with a noble name;Pour forth the glory of the Graeme!"110Scarce from her lip the word had rushed,When deep the conscious maiden blushed;For of his clan, in hall and bower,Young Malcolm Graeme was held the flower.
While yet he loitered on the spot,It seemed as Ellen marked him not;But when he turned him to the glade,85One courteous parting sign she made;And after, oft the knight would say,That not when prize of festal dayWas dealt him by the brightest fair,Who e'er wore jewel in her hair,90So highly did his bosom swell,As at that simple mute farewell.Now with a trusty mountain-guide,And his dark stag-hounds by his side,He parts—the maid, unconscious still,95Watched him wind slowly round the hill;But when his stately form was hid,The guardian in her bosom chid—"Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid!"'Twas thus upbraiding conscience said—100"Not so had Malcolm idly hungOn the smooth phrase of southern tongue;Not so had Malcolm strained his eyeAnother step than thine to spy.Wake, Allan-bane," aloud she cried,105To the old Minstrel by her side—"Arouse thee from thy moody dream!I'll give thy harp heroic theme,And warm thee with a noble name;Pour forth the glory of the Graeme!"110Scarce from her lip the word had rushed,When deep the conscious maiden blushed;For of his clan, in hall and bower,Young Malcolm Graeme was held the flower.
The Minstrel waked his harp—three times115Arose the well-known martial chimes,And thrice their high heroic prideIn melancholy murmurs died."Vainly thou bid'st, O noble maid,"Clasping his withered hands, he said,120"Vainly thou bid'st me wake the strain,Though all unwont to bid in vain.Alas! than mine a mightier handHas tuned my harp, my strings has spanned!I touch the chords of joy, but low125And mournful answer notes of woe;And the proud march, which victors tread,Sinks in the wailing for the dead.O well for me, if mine aloneThat dirge's deep prophetic tone!130If, as my tuneful fathers said,This harp, which erst Saint Modan swayed,noteCan thus its master's fate foretell,Then welcome be the minstrel's knell!
The Minstrel waked his harp—three times115Arose the well-known martial chimes,And thrice their high heroic prideIn melancholy murmurs died."Vainly thou bid'st, O noble maid,"Clasping his withered hands, he said,120"Vainly thou bid'st me wake the strain,Though all unwont to bid in vain.Alas! than mine a mightier handHas tuned my harp, my strings has spanned!I touch the chords of joy, but low125And mournful answer notes of woe;And the proud march, which victors tread,Sinks in the wailing for the dead.O well for me, if mine aloneThat dirge's deep prophetic tone!130If, as my tuneful fathers said,This harp, which erst Saint Modan swayed,noteCan thus its master's fate foretell,Then welcome be the minstrel's knell!
"But ah! dear lady, thus it sighed135The eve thy sainted mother died;And such the sounds which, while I stroveTo wake a lay of war or love,Came marring all the festal mirth,Appalling me who gave them birth,140And, disobedient to my call,Wailed loud through Bothwell's bannered hall,noteEre Douglases to ruin driven,Were exiled from their native heaven.Oh! if yet worse mishap and woe,145My master's house must undergo,Or aught but weal to Ellen fair,Brood in these accents of despair,No future bard, sad Harp! shall flingTriumph or rapture from thy string;150One short, one final strain shall flow,Fraught with unutterable woe,Then shivered shall thy fragments lie,Thy master cast him down and die!"
"But ah! dear lady, thus it sighed135The eve thy sainted mother died;And such the sounds which, while I stroveTo wake a lay of war or love,Came marring all the festal mirth,Appalling me who gave them birth,140And, disobedient to my call,Wailed loud through Bothwell's bannered hall,noteEre Douglases to ruin driven,Were exiled from their native heaven.Oh! if yet worse mishap and woe,145My master's house must undergo,Or aught but weal to Ellen fair,Brood in these accents of despair,No future bard, sad Harp! shall flingTriumph or rapture from thy string;150One short, one final strain shall flow,Fraught with unutterable woe,Then shivered shall thy fragments lie,Thy master cast him down and die!"
Soothing she answered him—"Assuage,155Mine honored friend, the fears of age;All melodies to thee are known,That harp has rung, or pipe has blown,In Lowland vale or Highland glen,From Tweed to Spey—what marvel, then,note160At times, unbidden notes should rise,Confusedly bound in memory's ties,Entangling, as they rush along,The war-march with the funeral song?Small ground is now for boding fear;165Obscure, but safe, we rest us here.My sire, in native virtue great,Resigning lordship, lands, and state,Not then to fortune more resigned,Than yonder oak might give the wind;170The graceful foliage storms may reave,The noble stem they cannot grieve.For me,"—she stooped, and, looking round,Plucked a blue hare-bell from the ground—"For me, whose memory scarce conveys175An image of more splendid days,This little flower, that loves the lea,May well my simple emblem be;It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as roseThat in the king's own garden grows;180And when I place it in my hair,Allan, a bard is bound to swearHe ne'er saw coronet so fair."Then playfully the chaplet wildShe wreathed in her dark locks, and smiled.
Soothing she answered him—"Assuage,155Mine honored friend, the fears of age;All melodies to thee are known,That harp has rung, or pipe has blown,In Lowland vale or Highland glen,From Tweed to Spey—what marvel, then,note160At times, unbidden notes should rise,Confusedly bound in memory's ties,Entangling, as they rush along,The war-march with the funeral song?Small ground is now for boding fear;165Obscure, but safe, we rest us here.My sire, in native virtue great,Resigning lordship, lands, and state,Not then to fortune more resigned,Than yonder oak might give the wind;170The graceful foliage storms may reave,The noble stem they cannot grieve.For me,"—she stooped, and, looking round,Plucked a blue hare-bell from the ground—"For me, whose memory scarce conveys175An image of more splendid days,This little flower, that loves the lea,May well my simple emblem be;It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as roseThat in the king's own garden grows;180And when I place it in my hair,Allan, a bard is bound to swearHe ne'er saw coronet so fair."Then playfully the chaplet wildShe wreathed in her dark locks, and smiled.
185Her smile, her speech, with winning sway,Wiled the old harper's mood away.With such a look as hermits throw,When angels stoop to soothe their woe,He gazed, till fond regret and pride190Thrilled to a tear, then thus replied:"Loveliest and best! thou little know'stThe rank, the honors, thou hast lost!O might I live to see thee grace,In Scotland's court, thy birth-right place,195To see my favorite's step advance,The lightest in the courtly dance,The cause of every gallant's sigh,And leading star of every eye,And theme of every minstrel's art,200The Lady of the Bleeding Heart!"note
185Her smile, her speech, with winning sway,Wiled the old harper's mood away.With such a look as hermits throw,When angels stoop to soothe their woe,He gazed, till fond regret and pride190Thrilled to a tear, then thus replied:"Loveliest and best! thou little know'stThe rank, the honors, thou hast lost!O might I live to see thee grace,In Scotland's court, thy birth-right place,195To see my favorite's step advance,The lightest in the courtly dance,The cause of every gallant's sigh,And leading star of every eye,And theme of every minstrel's art,200The Lady of the Bleeding Heart!"note
"Fair dreams are these," the maiden cried—Light was her accent, yet she sighed—"Yet is this mossy rock to meWorth splendid chair and canopy;205Nor would my footsteps spring more gayIn courtly dance than blithe strathspey,noteNor half so pleased mine ear inclineTo royal minstrel's lay as thine.And then for suitors proud and high,210To bend before my conquering eye—Thou, flattering bard! thyself wilt say,That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway.The Saxon scourge, Clan-Alpine's pride,noteThe terror of Loch-Lomond's side,215Would, at my suit, thou know'st, delayA Lennox foray—for a day."note
"Fair dreams are these," the maiden cried—Light was her accent, yet she sighed—"Yet is this mossy rock to meWorth splendid chair and canopy;205Nor would my footsteps spring more gayIn courtly dance than blithe strathspey,noteNor half so pleased mine ear inclineTo royal minstrel's lay as thine.And then for suitors proud and high,210To bend before my conquering eye—Thou, flattering bard! thyself wilt say,That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway.The Saxon scourge, Clan-Alpine's pride,noteThe terror of Loch-Lomond's side,215Would, at my suit, thou know'st, delayA Lennox foray—for a day."note
The ancient bard his glee repressed:"Ill hast thou chosen theme for jest!For who, through all this western wild,220Named Black Sir Roderick e'er, and smiled!In Holy-Rood a knight he slew;noteI saw, when back the dirk he drew,Courtiers give place before the strideOf the undaunted homicide;225And since, though outlawed, hath his handFull sternly kept his mountain land.Who else dared give—ah! woe the day,noteThat I such hated truth should say—The Douglas, like a stricken deer,230Disowned by every noble peer,Even the rude refuge we have here?Alas, this wild marauding ChiefAlone might hazard our relief,And now thy maiden charms expand,235Looks for his guerdon in thy hand;Full soon may dispensation sought,noteTo back his suit, from Rome he brought.Then, though an exile on the hill,Thy father, as the Douglas, still240Be held in reverence and fear;And though to Roderick thou'rt so dear,That thou might'st guide with silken thread,Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread;Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain!245Thy hand is on a lion's mane."
The ancient bard his glee repressed:"Ill hast thou chosen theme for jest!For who, through all this western wild,220Named Black Sir Roderick e'er, and smiled!In Holy-Rood a knight he slew;noteI saw, when back the dirk he drew,Courtiers give place before the strideOf the undaunted homicide;225And since, though outlawed, hath his handFull sternly kept his mountain land.Who else dared give—ah! woe the day,noteThat I such hated truth should say—The Douglas, like a stricken deer,230Disowned by every noble peer,Even the rude refuge we have here?Alas, this wild marauding ChiefAlone might hazard our relief,And now thy maiden charms expand,235Looks for his guerdon in thy hand;Full soon may dispensation sought,noteTo back his suit, from Rome he brought.Then, though an exile on the hill,Thy father, as the Douglas, still240Be held in reverence and fear;And though to Roderick thou'rt so dear,That thou might'st guide with silken thread,Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread;Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain!245Thy hand is on a lion's mane."
"Minstrel," the maid replied, and highHer father's soul glanced from her eye,"My debts to Roderick's house I know:All that a mother could bestow,note250To Lady Margaret's care I owe,Since first an orphan in the wildShe sorrowed o'er her sister's child;To her brave chieftain son, from ireOf Scotland's king who shrouds my sire.255A deeper, holier debt is owed;And, could I pay it with my blood,Allan! Sir Roderick should commandMy blood, my life—but not my hand.Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell260A votaress in Maronnan's cell;noteRather through realms beyond the sea,Seeking the world's cold charity,Where ne'er was spoke a Scottish word,And ne'er the name of Douglas heard,265An outcast pilgrim will she rove,Than wed the man she cannot love.
"Minstrel," the maid replied, and highHer father's soul glanced from her eye,"My debts to Roderick's house I know:All that a mother could bestow,note250To Lady Margaret's care I owe,Since first an orphan in the wildShe sorrowed o'er her sister's child;To her brave chieftain son, from ireOf Scotland's king who shrouds my sire.255A deeper, holier debt is owed;And, could I pay it with my blood,Allan! Sir Roderick should commandMy blood, my life—but not my hand.Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell260A votaress in Maronnan's cell;noteRather through realms beyond the sea,Seeking the world's cold charity,Where ne'er was spoke a Scottish word,And ne'er the name of Douglas heard,265An outcast pilgrim will she rove,Than wed the man she cannot love.
"Thou shakest, good friend, thy tresses gray—That pleading look, what can it sayBut what I own?—I grant him brave,270But wild as Bracklinn's thundering wave;noteAnd generous—save vindictive mood,Or jealous transport, chafe his blood;I grant him true to friendly band,As his claymore is to his hand;note275But O! that very blade of steelMore mercy for a foe would feel:I grant him liberal, to flingAmong his clan the wealth they bring,When back by lake and glen they wind,280And in the Lowland leave behind,Where once some pleasant hamlet stood,A mass of ashes slaked with blood.The hand that for my father fought,I honor, as his daughter ought;285But can I clasp it reeking red,From peasants slaughtered in their shed?No! wildly while his virtues gleam,They make his passions darker seem,And flash along his spirit high,290Like lightning o'er the midnight sky.While yet a child—and children know,Instinctive taught, the friend and foe—I shuddered at his brow of gloom,His shadowy plaid, and sable plume;295A maiden grown, I ill could bearHis haughty mien and lordly air;But, if thou join'st a suitor's claim,In serious mood, to Roderick's name,I thrill with anguish! or, if e'er300A Douglas knew the word, with fear.To change such odious theme were best—What think'st thou of our stranger guest?"
"Thou shakest, good friend, thy tresses gray—That pleading look, what can it sayBut what I own?—I grant him brave,270But wild as Bracklinn's thundering wave;noteAnd generous—save vindictive mood,Or jealous transport, chafe his blood;I grant him true to friendly band,As his claymore is to his hand;note275But O! that very blade of steelMore mercy for a foe would feel:I grant him liberal, to flingAmong his clan the wealth they bring,When back by lake and glen they wind,280And in the Lowland leave behind,Where once some pleasant hamlet stood,A mass of ashes slaked with blood.The hand that for my father fought,I honor, as his daughter ought;285But can I clasp it reeking red,From peasants slaughtered in their shed?No! wildly while his virtues gleam,They make his passions darker seem,And flash along his spirit high,290Like lightning o'er the midnight sky.While yet a child—and children know,Instinctive taught, the friend and foe—I shuddered at his brow of gloom,His shadowy plaid, and sable plume;295A maiden grown, I ill could bearHis haughty mien and lordly air;But, if thou join'st a suitor's claim,In serious mood, to Roderick's name,I thrill with anguish! or, if e'er300A Douglas knew the word, with fear.To change such odious theme were best—What think'st thou of our stranger guest?"
"What think I of him?—woe the whileThat brought such wanderer to our isle!305Thy father's battle-brand, of yorenoteFor Tine-man forged by fairy lore.What time he leagued, no longer foes,His Border spears with Hotspur's bows,Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow310The footstep of a secret foe.If courtly spy hath harbored here,What may we for the Douglas fear?What for this island, deemed of oldClan-Alpine's last and surest hold?315If neither spy nor foe, I prayWhat yet may jealous Roderick say?—Nay, wave not thy disdainful head,Bethink thee of the discord dread,That kindled when at Beltane gamenote320Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm Graeme;Still, though thy sire the peace renewed,Smolders in Roderick's breast the feud;Beware!—But hark, what sounds are these?My dull ears catch no faltering breeze,325No weeping birch, nor aspens wake,Nor breath is dimpling in the lake,Still is the canna's hoary beard,noteYet, by my minstrel faith, I heard—And hark again! some pipe of war330Sends the bold pibroch from afar."
"What think I of him?—woe the whileThat brought such wanderer to our isle!305Thy father's battle-brand, of yorenoteFor Tine-man forged by fairy lore.What time he leagued, no longer foes,His Border spears with Hotspur's bows,Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow310The footstep of a secret foe.If courtly spy hath harbored here,What may we for the Douglas fear?What for this island, deemed of oldClan-Alpine's last and surest hold?315If neither spy nor foe, I prayWhat yet may jealous Roderick say?—Nay, wave not thy disdainful head,Bethink thee of the discord dread,That kindled when at Beltane gamenote320Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm Graeme;Still, though thy sire the peace renewed,Smolders in Roderick's breast the feud;Beware!—But hark, what sounds are these?My dull ears catch no faltering breeze,325No weeping birch, nor aspens wake,Nor breath is dimpling in the lake,Still is the canna's hoary beard,noteYet, by my minstrel faith, I heard—And hark again! some pipe of war330Sends the bold pibroch from afar."
Far up the lengthened lake were spiednoteFour darkening specks upon the tide,That, slow enlarging on the view,Four manned and masted barges grew,note335And, bearing downwards from Glengyle,noteSteered full upon the lonely isle;The point of Brianchoil they passed,And, to the windward as they cast,Against the sun they gave to shine340The bold Sir Roderick's bannered Pine.Nearer and nearer as they bear,Spears, pikes, and axes flash in air.Now might you see the tartans brave,noteAnd plaids and plumage dance and wave;345Now see the bonnets sink and rise,As his tough oar the rower plies;See, flashing at each sturdy stroke,The wave ascending into smoke;See the proud pipers on the bow,350And mark the gaudy streamers flowFrom their loud chanters down, and sweepThe furrowed bosom of the deep,As, rushing through the lake amain,They plied the ancient Highland strain.
Far up the lengthened lake were spiednoteFour darkening specks upon the tide,That, slow enlarging on the view,Four manned and masted barges grew,note335And, bearing downwards from Glengyle,noteSteered full upon the lonely isle;The point of Brianchoil they passed,And, to the windward as they cast,Against the sun they gave to shine340The bold Sir Roderick's bannered Pine.Nearer and nearer as they bear,Spears, pikes, and axes flash in air.Now might you see the tartans brave,noteAnd plaids and plumage dance and wave;345Now see the bonnets sink and rise,As his tough oar the rower plies;See, flashing at each sturdy stroke,The wave ascending into smoke;See the proud pipers on the bow,350And mark the gaudy streamers flowFrom their loud chanters down, and sweepThe furrowed bosom of the deep,As, rushing through the lake amain,They plied the ancient Highland strain.
355Ever, as on they bore, more loudAnd louder rung the pibroch proud.At first the sound, by distance tame,Mellowed along the waters came,And, lingering long by cape and bay,360Wailed every harsher note away,Then bursting bolder on the ear,The clan's shrill Gathering they could hear;Those thrilling sounds, that call the mightOf Old Clan-Alpine to the fight.365Thick beat the rapid notes, as whenThe mustering hundreds shake the glen,And hurrying at the signal dread,The battered earth returns their tread.Then prelude light, of livelier tone,370Expressed their merry marching on,Ere peal of closing battle rose,With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows;And mimic din of stroke and ward,As broad sword upon target jarred;375And groaning pause, ere yet again,Condensed, the battle yelled amain;The rapid charge, the rallying shout,Retreat borne headlong into rout,And bursts of triumph, to declare380Clan-Alpine's conquest—all were there.Nor ended thus the strain; but slowSunk in a moan prolonged and low,And changed the conquering clarion swell,For wild lament o'er those that fell.
355Ever, as on they bore, more loudAnd louder rung the pibroch proud.At first the sound, by distance tame,Mellowed along the waters came,And, lingering long by cape and bay,360Wailed every harsher note away,Then bursting bolder on the ear,The clan's shrill Gathering they could hear;Those thrilling sounds, that call the mightOf Old Clan-Alpine to the fight.365Thick beat the rapid notes, as whenThe mustering hundreds shake the glen,And hurrying at the signal dread,The battered earth returns their tread.Then prelude light, of livelier tone,370Expressed their merry marching on,Ere peal of closing battle rose,With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows;And mimic din of stroke and ward,As broad sword upon target jarred;375And groaning pause, ere yet again,Condensed, the battle yelled amain;The rapid charge, the rallying shout,Retreat borne headlong into rout,And bursts of triumph, to declare380Clan-Alpine's conquest—all were there.Nor ended thus the strain; but slowSunk in a moan prolonged and low,And changed the conquering clarion swell,For wild lament o'er those that fell.
385The war-pipes ceased; but lake and hillWere busy with their echoes still;And, when they slept, a vocal strainBade their hoarse chorus wake again,While loud a hundred clansmen raise390Their voices in their Chieftain's praise.Each boatman, bending to his oar,With measured sweep the burden bore,In such wild cadence, as the breezeMakes through December's leafless trees.395The chorus first could Allan know,note"Roderick Vich Alpine, ho! iro!"And near, and nearer as they rowed,Distinct the martial ditty flowed.
385The war-pipes ceased; but lake and hillWere busy with their echoes still;And, when they slept, a vocal strainBade their hoarse chorus wake again,While loud a hundred clansmen raise390Their voices in their Chieftain's praise.Each boatman, bending to his oar,With measured sweep the burden bore,In such wild cadence, as the breezeMakes through December's leafless trees.395The chorus first could Allan know,note"Roderick Vich Alpine, ho! iro!"And near, and nearer as they rowed,Distinct the martial ditty flowed.
Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!400Honored and blessed be the ever-green Pine!Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!Heaven send it happy dew,Earth lend it sap anew,405Gayly to borgeon, and broadly to grow,While every Highland glenSends our shout back again,"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"noteOurs is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,410Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;noteWhen the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain,The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.Moored in the rifted rock,Proof to the tempest's shock,415Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;Menteith and Breadalbane, then,noteEcho his praise again,"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"
Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!400Honored and blessed be the ever-green Pine!Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!Heaven send it happy dew,Earth lend it sap anew,405Gayly to borgeon, and broadly to grow,While every Highland glenSends our shout back again,"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"note
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,410Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;noteWhen the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain,The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.Moored in the rifted rock,Proof to the tempest's shock,415Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;Menteith and Breadalbane, then,noteEcho his praise again,"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"
Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin,note420And 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 maidLong shall lament our raid,425Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;Lennox and Leven-glenShake when they hear again"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the highlands!430Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green Pine!O that the rose-bud that graces yon islands,noteWere wreathed in a garland around him to twine!O that some seedling gem,Worthy such noble stem,435Honored and blest in their shadow might grow;Loud should Clan-Alpine thenRing from her deepmost glen,"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"
Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin,note420And 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 maidLong shall lament our raid,425Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;Lennox and Leven-glenShake when they hear again"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"
Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the highlands!430Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green Pine!O that the rose-bud that graces yon islands,noteWere wreathed in a garland around him to twine!O that some seedling gem,Worthy such noble stem,435Honored and blest in their shadow might grow;Loud should Clan-Alpine thenRing from her deepmost glen,"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"
With all her joyful female band,440Had 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;445While, prompt to please, with mother's art,The darling passion of his heart,The Dame called Ellen to the strand,To greet her kinsman ere he land:"Come, loiterer, come! a Douglas thou,450And shun to wreathe a victor's brow?"Reluctantly and slow, the maidThe unwelcome summoning obeyed,And, when a distant bugle rung,In the mid-path aside she sprung:455"List Allan-bane! From mainland castI 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,460She darted to her shallop light,And, eagerly while Roderick scanned,For her dear form, his mother's band,The islet far behind her lay,And she had landed in the bay.
With all her joyful female band,440Had 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;445While, prompt to please, with mother's art,The darling passion of his heart,The Dame called Ellen to the strand,To greet her kinsman ere he land:"Come, loiterer, come! a Douglas thou,450And shun to wreathe a victor's brow?"Reluctantly and slow, the maidThe unwelcome summoning obeyed,And, when a distant bugle rung,In the mid-path aside she sprung:455"List Allan-bane! From mainland castI 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,460She darted to her shallop light,And, eagerly while Roderick scanned,For her dear form, his mother's band,The islet far behind her lay,And she had landed in the bay.
465Some feelings are to mortals given,With less of earth in them than heaven:And if there be a human tearFrom passion's dross refined and clear,A tear so limpid and so meek,470It would not stain an angel's cheek,'Tis that which pious fathers shedUpon a duteous daughter's head!And as the Douglas to his breastHis darling Ellen closely pressed,475Such holy drops her tresses steeped,Though 'twas an hero's eye that weeped.Nor while on Ellen's faltering tongueHer filial welcomes crowded hung,Marked she, that fear, affection's proof,480Still held a graceful youth aloof;No! not till Douglas named his name,Although the youth was Malcolm Graeme.
465Some feelings are to mortals given,With less of earth in them than heaven:And if there be a human tearFrom passion's dross refined and clear,A tear so limpid and so meek,470It would not stain an angel's cheek,'Tis that which pious fathers shedUpon a duteous daughter's head!And as the Douglas to his breastHis darling Ellen closely pressed,475Such holy drops her tresses steeped,Though 'twas an hero's eye that weeped.Nor while on Ellen's faltering tongueHer filial welcomes crowded hung,Marked she, that fear, affection's proof,480Still held a graceful youth aloof;No! not till Douglas named his name,Although the youth was Malcolm Graeme.
Allan, with wistful look the while,Marked Roderick landing on the isle;485His master piteously he eyed.Then gazed upon the Chieftain's pride,Then dashed, with hasty hand, awayFrom his dimmed eye the gathering spray;And Douglas, as his hand he laid490On Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said,"Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spyIn my poor follower's glistening eye?I'll tell thee: he recalls the day,When in my praise he led the lay495O'er the arched gate of Bothwell proud,While many a minstrel answered loud,When Percy's Norman pennon, wonnoteIn bloody field, before me shone,And twice ten knights, the least a name500As mighty as yon Chief may claim,Gracing my pomp, behind me came.Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proudWas I of all that marshaled crowd,Though the waned crescent owned my might,note505And in my train trooped lord and knight,Though Blantyre hymned her holiest lays,noteAnd Bothwell's bards flung back my praise,As when this old man's silent tear,And this poor maid's affection dear,510A welcome give more kind and true,Than aught my better fortunes knew.Forgive, my friend, a father's boast,Oh! it out-beggars all I lost!"
Allan, with wistful look the while,Marked Roderick landing on the isle;485His master piteously he eyed.Then gazed upon the Chieftain's pride,Then dashed, with hasty hand, awayFrom his dimmed eye the gathering spray;And Douglas, as his hand he laid490On Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said,"Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spyIn my poor follower's glistening eye?I'll tell thee: he recalls the day,When in my praise he led the lay495O'er the arched gate of Bothwell proud,While many a minstrel answered loud,When Percy's Norman pennon, wonnoteIn bloody field, before me shone,And twice ten knights, the least a name500As mighty as yon Chief may claim,Gracing my pomp, behind me came.Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proudWas I of all that marshaled crowd,Though the waned crescent owned my might,note505And in my train trooped lord and knight,Though Blantyre hymned her holiest lays,noteAnd Bothwell's bards flung back my praise,As when this old man's silent tear,And this poor maid's affection dear,510A welcome give more kind and true,Than aught my better fortunes knew.Forgive, my friend, a father's boast,Oh! it out-beggars all I lost!"
Delightful praise!—like summer rose,515That brighter in the dew-drop glows,The bashful maiden's cheek appeared,For Douglas spoke and Malcolm heard.The flush of shame-faced joy to hide,The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide;520The loved caresses of the maidThe dogs with crouch and whimper paid;And, at her whistle, on her handThe falcon took his favorite stand,Closed his dark wing, relaxed his eye,525Nor, 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 thoughtO'erweighed her worth, and beauty aught,530Well might the lover's judgment failTo balance with a juster scale;For with each secret glance he stole,The fond enthusiast sent his soul.
Delightful praise!—like summer rose,515That brighter in the dew-drop glows,The bashful maiden's cheek appeared,For Douglas spoke and Malcolm heard.The flush of shame-faced joy to hide,The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide;520The loved caresses of the maidThe dogs with crouch and whimper paid;And, at her whistle, on her handThe falcon took his favorite stand,Closed his dark wing, relaxed his eye,525Nor, 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 thoughtO'erweighed her worth, and beauty aught,530Well might the lover's judgment failTo balance with a juster scale;For with each secret glance he stole,The fond enthusiast sent his soul.
Of stature tall, and slender frame,535But firmly knit, was Malcolm Graeme.The belted plaid and tartan hoseDid ne'er more graceful limbs disclose;His flaxen hair, of sunny hue,Curled closely round his bonnet blue.540Trained to the chase, his eagle eyeThe 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,545When Malcolm bent his sounding bow,And scarce that doe, though winged with fear,Outstripped in speed the mountaineer;Right up Ben-Lomond could he press,And not a sob his toil confess.550His form accorded with a mindLively and ardent, frank and kind;A blither heart, till Ellen came,Did never love nor sorrow tame;It danced as lightsome in his breast,555As played the feather on his crest.Yet friends, who nearest knew the youth,His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth,And bards, who saw his features bold,When kindled by the tales of old,560Said, were that youth to manhood grown,Not long should Roderick Dhu's renownBe foremost voiced by mountain fame,But quail to that of Malcolm Graeme.
Of stature tall, and slender frame,535But firmly knit, was Malcolm Graeme.The belted plaid and tartan hoseDid ne'er more graceful limbs disclose;His flaxen hair, of sunny hue,Curled closely round his bonnet blue.540Trained to the chase, his eagle eyeThe 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,545When Malcolm bent his sounding bow,And scarce that doe, though winged with fear,Outstripped in speed the mountaineer;Right up Ben-Lomond could he press,And not a sob his toil confess.550His form accorded with a mindLively and ardent, frank and kind;A blither heart, till Ellen came,Did never love nor sorrow tame;It danced as lightsome in his breast,555As played the feather on his crest.Yet friends, who nearest knew the youth,His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth,And bards, who saw his features bold,When kindled by the tales of old,560Said, were that youth to manhood grown,Not long should Roderick Dhu's renownBe foremost voiced by mountain fame,But quail to that of Malcolm Graeme.