In future I'll rise to the cock's matins shrill, My hair shall be powder'd with dust of the mill; I'll toil, till a way for my family's clear." Night lowers; the wild goat lays his side to the hill, Where sleeps the heath-cock when the screech-owl is still; The eyes of the wild cat roll red in the glade, As bright glanced the fleet-flitting streamers of hea ven, Which some say in token of bloodshed are given ; Had sworn, in his blood, their false claims to secure. "Twas the warning of Fate! 'twas the shadow of Death, Which cross'd the poor soldier as he slept on the heath; The camp sentinel, weary with marching by day, At midnight his watching time dozing away, Resumes not his station so fast, when at hand He hears piquet pad rounds desiring to stand, As started up Taggart, and braced on his targe, With right foot advanced, and his sword at St George; He stood like a hero, demanded who came, Till loudly the mountain pass echo'd the same. Adown the dark hill though they rush'd like a flood, A moment the banditti motionless stood; Nor had any one of them power to reply, Though thrice he repeated, "Come on, it is I!" They threw back their plaids, and began to advance; Dirks, forks, and Feraras, before them they pusht, And round the poor soldier like furies they rusht. Vain was it, alas! now to think he could save His head, from the blood-thirsty miscreants' glaive; Yet under the force of his death-boding steel, He made soon the boldest assassin to reel. Ev'n when overpower'd, and through many a wound The flood of life flow'd as he fell to the ground, "Although I retreat, the last trumpet," he cry'd, "Must blow, before vic'try is sure on your side!" Unfortunate mortals, the dire deed is done! And will not his innocent blood spilt, a stain Will muffled drum's roll, or the dead marches sound, Accord with the sighs of companions around? Or will the blank volley be fired o'er his grave, Away with your mattoo's, a grave will not hide The murder in which your foul fingers are dyed; Though Skeeoch's blue loch in reflection yet show The stars of the firmament shining below; The cry of the harriers blent in the wind, Now joy in the heart of the hunter is o'er, Astonish'd he views the corse covered with gore; Though mangled the visage, and sunk the dark eye, The last of a hero he yet can descry: Who, as if he still would wage war with a foe, Holds up the broad target to ward the next blow; And fix'd, in a daring position, his hand Is clench'd round the hilt of the blood-barken'd brand. That on the rough soil, often softened of yore With many a fierce-fighting foreigner's gore, A champion's blood unrevenged might not flow, The war-horn was made in the mountains to blow. Now see horse and hound, how they nimbly pursue The panic-struck murderers full in their view; They mercy implore, but to death they are given, Their bones left to bleach in the tempests of heaven! |