His stripling son stands mournful by,
His youngest weeps, but knows not why;
The village maids and matrons round
The dismal coronach* resound.

All stand aghast :-unheeding all,
The henchman bursts into the hall!
Before the dead man's bier he stood,

Held forth the Cross besmeared with blood!
"The muster place is Lanrick mead;
Speed forth the signal! clansmen, speed!"
Angus, the heir of Duncan's line,
Sprang forth and seized the fatal sign.
In haste the stripling to his side
His father's dirk and broad-sword tied ;
But when he saw his mother's eye
Watch him in speechless agony,
Back to her opened arms he flew,
Pressed on her lips a fond adieu.

He vanished, and o'er moor and moss
Sped forward with the Fiery Cross.

Benledi saw the Cross of Fire,

It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire.
O'er dale and hill the summons flew,
Not rest nor pause young Angus knew;
The tear that gathered in his eye,
He left the mountain breeze to dry;
Until, where Teith's young waters roll,
Betwixt him and a wooded knoll,

That graced the sable strath with green,
The chapel of Saint Bride was seen.
Swollen was the stream, remote the bridge,
But Angus paused not on the edge;
Though the dark waves danced dizzily,
Though reeled his sympathetic eye,
He dashed amid the torrent's roar;
His right hand high the crosslet bore,
His left the pole-axe grasped, to guide
And stay his footing in the tide.

He stumbled twice the foam splashed high,
With hoarser swell the stream raced by ;

And had he fallen,-for ever there,

Farewell Duncraggan's orphan heir!

*Funeral song.

But still, as if in parting life,
Firmer he grasped the Cross of strife,
Until the opposing bank he gained,
And up the chapel pathway strained,
A blithesome rout, that morning tide,
Had sought the chapel of Saint Bride
Her troth Tombea's Mary gave
To Norman, heir of Armandave,
And, issuing from the Gothic arch,
The bridal now resumed their march.

Who meets them at the churchyard gate? The messenger of fear and fate! Haste in his hurried accent lies, And grief is swimming in his eyes. All dripping from the recent flood, Panting and travel-soiled he stood. The fatal sign of fire and sword

Held forth, and spoke the appointed word: "The muster-place is Lanrick mead; Speed forth the signal! Norman, speed!"

;

Yet slow he laid his plaid aside,
And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride,
Until he saw the starting tear
Speak woe he might not stop to cheer
Then, trusting not a second look,
In haste he sped him up the brook,
Nor backward glanced till on the heath
Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith.

The signal roused to martial coil
The sullen margin of Loch-Voil,
Waked still Loch-Doine, and to the source
Alarmed, Balvaig, thy swampy course;
Thence southward turned its rapid road
Adown Strath-Gartney's valley broad,
Till rose in arms each man might claim
A portion in Clan-Alpine's name;
From the grey sire, whose trembling hand
Could hardly buckle on his brand,
To the raw boy, whose shaft and bow
Were yet scarce terror to the crow.
Each valley, each sequestered glen,
Mustered its little horde of men,
That met as torrents from the height,
In Highland dale their streams unite,

Still gathering, as they pour along,
A voice more loud, a tide more strong,
Till at the rendezvous they stood

By hundreds prompt for blows and blood;
Each trained to arms since life began,
Owning no tie but to his clan,

No oath, but by his Chieftain's hand,
No law, but Roderick Dhu's command.

Now eve, with western shadows long,
Floated on Katrine bright and strong,
When Roderick, with a chosen few,
Repassed the heights of Ben-venue.

And, with the latest beams of light,
The band arrived on Lanrick height,
Where mustered in the vale below,
Clan-Alpine's men in martial show.
A various scene the clansmen made,
Some sate, some stood, some slowly strayed;
But most, with mantles folded round,
Were couched to rest upon the ground,
Scarce to be known by curious eye,
From the deep heather where they lie,
So well was matched the tartan screen
With heath-bell dark and brackens green;
Unless where, here and there, a blade,
Or lance's point, a glimmer made,
Like glow-worm twinkling through the shade.
But, when, advancing through the gloom,
They saw the Chieftain's eagle plume,
Their shout of welcome, shrill and wide,
Shook the steep mountain's steady side.
Thrice it arose, and lake and fell
Three times returned the martial yell.
It died upon Bochastle's plain,

And Silence claimed her evening reign.

PART III.

FITZ-JAMES'S DANGEROUS JOURNEY.

Fitz-James had returned to the Highlands to try and persuade Ellen to come to the court of Scotland. She refused to do so, and he then gave her a ring, by means of which she would at any time be able to secure an audience of the King. Murdoch, who acted as Fitz-James's guide, had orders from Roderick Dhu to lead him astray, and then betray him.

He joined his guide, and wending down
The ridges of the mountain brown,
Across the stream they took their way,
That joins Loch-Katrine to Achray.
All in the Trosachs' glen was still,
Noontide was sleeping on the hill:
Sudden his guide whooped loud and high-
"Murdoch! was that a signal cry ?
He stammered forth,-"I shout to scare
Yon raven from his dainty fare."

He looked-he knew the raven's prey,
His own brave steed :-"Ah! gallant grey!
For thee-for me perchance-'twere well
We ne'er had seen the Trosachs' dell.
Murdoch, move first-but silently;
Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die."
Jealous and sullen on they fared,
Each silent, each upon his guard.
Now wound the path its dizzy ledge
Around a precipice's edge,

When lo! a wasted female form,
Blighted by wrath of sun and storm,
In tattered weeds and wild array
Stood on a cliff beside the way,
And glancing round her restless eye
Upon the wood, the rock, the sky,
Seemed nought to mark, yet all to spy.
Her brow was wreathed with gaudy broom;
With gesture wild she waved a plume
Of feathers, which the eagles fling
To crag and cliff from dusky wing;
Such spoils her desperate step had sought,
Where scarce was footing for the goat.
The tartan plaid she first descried,
And shrieked, till all the rocks replied;
As loud she laughed when near they drew,
For then the Lowland garb she knew;
And then her hands she wildly rung,
And then she wept, and then she sung.
She sung!-the voice, in better time,
Perchance to harp or lute might chime;
And now, though strained and roughened, still
Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill.

Sang.

They bid me sleep, they bid me pray,
They say my brain is warped and wrung-

I cannot sleep on Highland brae,

I cannot pray in Highland tongue.

But were I now where Allan glides,
Or heard my native Devan's tides,
So sweetly would I rest and pray
That heaven would close my wintry day!
"'Twas thus my hair they bade me braid,
They bade me to the church repair;
It was my bridal morn, they said,

And my true love would meet me there.
But woe betide the cruel guile

That drowned in blood the morning smile!
And woe betide the fairy dream!

I only waked to sob and scream."

"Who is this maid? what means her lay?
She hovers o'er the hollow way,
And flutters wide her mantle grey,
As the lone heron spreads his wing,
By twilight, o'er a haunted spring."
""Tis Blanche of Devan," Murdoch said,
"A crazed and captive Lowland maid,
Ta'en on the morn she was a bride,
When Roderick forayed Devan-side.
The gay bridegroom resistance made,
And felt our Chief's unconquered blade.
I marvel she is now at large,

But oft she 'scapes from Maudlin's charge;
Hence, brain-sick fool!" He raised his bow:
"Now, if thou strikest her but one blow,
I'll pitch thee from the cliff as far

As ever peasant pitched a bar."

"Thanks, champion, thanks!" the Maniac cried,
And pressed her to Fitz-James's side.
"See the grey pennons I prepare,
To seek my true-love through the air!
I will not lend that savage groom,
To break his fall, one downy plume!
No!-deep amid disjointed stones,
The wolves shall batten on his bones,
And then shall his detested plaid
By bush and briar in mid-air stayed,
Wave forth a banner fair and free,
Meet signal for their revelry."
"Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still!"
"Oh! thou look'st kindly, and I will.
Mine eye has dried and wasted been,
But still it loves the Lincoln green;
And, though mine ear is all unstrung,
Still, still it loves the Lowland tongue."