Speed, Malise, speed! the lake is past, Duncraggan's huts appear at last, And peep, like moss-grown rocks, half
Half hidden in the copse so green; There mayest thou rest, thy labour done,
Their Lord shall speed the signal on,As stoops the hawk upon his prey, The henchman shot him down the
-What woeful accents load the gale? The funeral yell, the female wail! A gallant hunter's sport is o'er, A valiant warrior fights no more. Who, in the battle or the chase, At Roderick's side shall fill his place?Within the hall, where torches' ray Supplies the excluded beams of day, Lies Duncan on his lowly bier, And o'er him streams his widow's tear. His stripling son stands mournful by, His youngest weeps, but knows not why;
The village maids and matrons round The dismal coronach resound.1
He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest, The font, reappearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary. But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory.
1 The Coronach of the Highlanders, like the Ulalatus of the Romans, and the Ululoo of the Irish, was a wild expression of lamentation, poured forth by the mourners over the body of a departed friend. When the words of it were articulate, they expressed the praises of the deceased, and the loss
the clan would sustain by his death.
The coronach has for some years past been superseded at funerals by the use of the b gpipe; and that also is, like many other Highland peculiarities, ing into disuse, unless in remote districts.
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi,2
Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever!
See Stumah, who, the bief beside, His master's corpse with wonder eyed, Poor Stumah! whom his least halloo Could send like lightning o'er the dew, Bristles his crest, and points his ears, As if some stranger step he hears. 'Tis not a mourner's muffled tread, Who comes to sorrow o'er the dead, But headlong haste, or deadly fear, Urge the precipitate career. All stand aghast:-unheeding all, The henchman bursts into the hall; Before the dead man's hier he stood; Held forth the Cross besmear'd with blood;
"The muster-place is Lanrick mead; Speed forth the signal clansmen, speed!"
And toss'd. aloft his bonnet crest, Then, like the high-bred colt, when, freed,
First he essays his fire and speed, He vanish'd, and o'er moor and moss Sped forward with the Fiery Cross. Suspended was the widow's tear While yet his footsteps she could hear;
And when she mark'd the henchman's eye
Wet with unwonted sympathy, "Kinsman," she said, "his race is run, That should have sped thine errand on; The oak has fall'n, the sapling bough Is all Duncraggan's shelter now. Yet trust I well, his duty done, The orphan's God will guard my son.- And you, in many a danger true, At Duncan's hest your blades that drew,
To arms, and guard that orphan's head!
Let babes and women wail the dead." Then weapon-clang, and martial call, Resounded through the funeral hall, While from the walls the attendant band
Snatch'd sword and targe, with hurried hand;
And short and flitting energy Glanced from the mourner's sunken eye,
As if the sounds to warrior dear, Might rouse her Duncan from his bier But faded soon that borrow'd force; Grief claim'd his right, and tears their
Benledi saw the Cross of Fire, It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire. O'er dale and hill the summons flew, Nor rest nor pause young Angus knew; The tear that gather'd 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 St. Bride was seen. Swoln was the stream, remote the bridge,
But Angus paused not on the edge; Though the dark waves danced dizzily,
Though reel'd his sympathetic eye, He dash'd amid the torrent's roar: His right hand high the crosslet bore, His left the pole-axe grasp'd, to guide And stay his footing in the tide.. He stumbled twice-the foam splash'd high,
With hoarser swell the stream raced by;
And had he fall'n,-for ever there, Farewell Duncraggan's orphan heir! But still, as if in parting life, Firmer he grasp'd the Cross of strife, Until the opposing bank he gain'd. And up the chapel pathway strain'd.
A blithesome rout, that morning tide, Had sought the chapel of St. Bride. Her troth Tombea's Mary gave To Norman, heir of Armandave. And, issuing from the Gothic arch, The bridal now resumed their march. In rude, but glad procession, came Bonneted sire and coif-clad dame; And plaided youth, with jest and jeer, Which snooded maiden would not hear; And children, that, unwitting why, Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry; And minstrels, that in measures vied Before the young and bonny bride, Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose The tear and blush of morning rose. With virgin step, and bashful hand, She held the 'kerchief's snowy band; The gallant bridegroom by her side, Beheld his prize with victor's pride, And the glad mother in her ear Was closely whispering word of cheer.
speed! And must he change so soon the hand,
Just link'd to his by holy band, For the fell Cross of blood and brand? And must the day, so blithe that rose, And promised rapture in the close, Before its setting hour, divide The bridegroom from the plighted bride?
O fatal doom!-it must! it must! Clan-Alpiue's cause, her Chieftain's trust,
Her summons dread, brook no delay; Stretch to the race-away! away!
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.
-What in the racer's bosom stirr'd? The sickening pang of hope deferr'd, And memory, with a torturing train Of all his morning visions vain. Mingled with love's impatience, came The manly thirst for martial fame; The stormy joy of mountaineers, Ere yet they rush upon the spears; And zeal for Clan and Chieftain burning,
And hope, from well-fought field returning,
With war's red honours on his crest, To clasp his Mary to his breast. Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank and brae,
Like fire from flint he glanced away, While high resolve, and feeling strong, Burst into voluntary song.
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! It will not waken me, Mary!
I may not, dare not, fancy now The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, I dare not think upon thy vow,
And all it promised me, Mary. No fond regret must Norman know; When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,, His heart must be like bended bow,
His foot like arrow free, Mary. A time will come with feeling fraught, For, if I fall in battle fought, Thy hapless lover's dying thought
Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. How blithely will the evening close, And if return'd from conquer'd foes, How sweet the linnet sing repose,
To my young bride and me, Mary!
Not faster o'er thy heathery braes, Balquidder, speeds the midnight blaze, Rushing, in conflagration strong, Thy deep ravines and dells along, Wrapping the cliffs in purple glow, And reddening the dark lakes below; Nor faster speeds it, nor so far, As o'er thy heaths the voice of war. The signal roused to martial coil The sullen margin of Loch Veil, Waked still Loch Doine, and to the
Alarm'd, Balvaig, thy swampy course; Thence southward turn'd 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 sequester'd glen, Muster'd its little horde of men, That met as torrents from the height In Highland dales their streams unite, A voice more loud, a tide more strong, Still gathering, as they pour along, ill at the rendezvous they stood By hundreds prompt for blows and blood;
Each train'd 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..
That summer morn had Roderick Dhu Survey'd the skirts of Benvenue, And sent his scouts o'er hill and heath,
To view the frontiers of Menteith. All backward came with news of truce; Still lay each martial Græme and Bruce,
In Rednoch courts no horsemen wait, No banner waved on Cardross gate, On Duchray's towers no beacon shone, Nor scared the herons from Loch Con; All seem'd at peace.-Now, wot ye why The Chieftain, with such anxious eye, Ere to the muster he repair, This western frontier scann'd with care 2-
In Benvenue's most darksome cleft, A fair, though cruel, pledge was left; For Douglas, to his promise true, That morning from the isle withdrew, And in a deep sequester'd dell Had sought a low and lonely cell. By many a bard, in Celtic tongue, Has Coir-nan-Uriskin been sung; A softer name the Saxons gave, And call'd the grot the Goblin-cave.
It was a wild and strange retreat, As e'er was trod by outlaw's feet. The dell, upon the mountain's crest, Yawn'd like a gash on warrior's breast; Its trench had staid full many a rock, Hurl'd by primeval earthquake shock- From Benvenue's grey summit wild, And here, in random ruin piled, They frown'd incumbent o'er the spot, And form'd the rugged silvan grot. The oak and birch, with mingled shade,
At noontide there a twilight made, Unless when short and sudden shone Some straggling beam on cliff or stone, With such a glimpse as prophet's eye Gains on thy depth, Futurity. No murmur waked the solemn still, Save tinkling of a fountain rill; But when the wind chafed with the lake,
A sullen sound would upward break, With dashing hollow voice, that spoke The incessant war of wave and rock. Suspended cliffs, with hideous sway,
Seem'd nodding o'er the cavern grey. From such a den the wolf had sprung In such the wild-cat leaves her young Yet Douglas and his daughter fair Sought for a space their safety there. Grey Superstition's whisper dread Debarr'd the spot to vulgar tread; For there, she said, did fays resort, And satyrs hold their silvan court, By moonlight tread their mystic maze, And blast the rash beholder's gaze.
Now eve, with western shadows long, Floated on Katrine bright and strong, Repass'd the heights of Benvenue. When Roderick, with a chosen few, Above the Goblin-cave they go, The prompt retainers speed before, Through the wild pass of Beal-nam-bo: For cross Loch Katrine lies his way To launch the shallop from the shore, To view the passes of Achray, And place his clansmen in array. Yet lags the chief in musing mind, Unwonted sight, his men behind. A single page, to bear his sword, Alone attended on his lord;
The rest their way through thickets break,
And soon await him by the lake. It was a fair and gallant sight, To view them from the neighbouring By the low-levell'd sunbeams light! height, For strength and stature, from the clan Each warrior was a chosen man, By their proud step and martial mien. As even afar might well be seen,⚫ Their feathers dance, their tartans float,
Their targets gleam, as by the boat A wild and warlike group they stand, That well became such mountain- strand.
Their Chief, with step reluctant, still Was lingering on the craggy hill, Hard by where turn'd apart the road To Douglas's obscure abode.
It was but with that dawning morn, That Roderick Dhu had proudly sworn To drown his love in war's wild roar, Nor think of Ellen Douglas more;
But he who stems a stream with sand, And fetters flame with flaxen band, Has yet a harder task to prove- By firm resolve to conquer love! Eve finds the Chief, like restless ghost, Still hovering near his treasure lost; For though his haughty heart deny A parting meeting to his eye, Still fondly strains his anxious ear, The accents of her voice to hear, And inly did he curse the breeze That waked to sound the rustling trees. But hark! what mingles in the strain? It is the harp of Allan-bane, That wakes its measure slow and high, Attuned to sacred minstrelsy. What melting voice attends the strings? "Tis Ellen, or an angel, sings.
As list'ning still, Clan-Alpine's lord Stood leaning on his heavy sword, Until the page, with humble sign, Twice pointed to the sun's decline. Then while his plaid he round him cast,
"It is the last time-'tis the last," He mutter'd thrice," the last time e'er That angel voice shall Roderick hear!" It was a goading thought-his stride Hied hastier down the mountain-side; Sullen he flung him in the boat, And instant 'cross the lake it shot. They landed in that silvery bay, And eastward held their hasty way, Till, with the latest beams of light, The band arrived on Lanrick height, Where muster'd, in the vale below, Clan-Alpine's men in martial show.
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