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A doleful tribute !-o'er his hearse.
Then let me share his captive lot;
It is my right-deny it not!
"Little we reck," said John of Brent,
"We Southern men, of long descent;
Nor wot we how a name-a word-
Makes clansmen vassals to a lord:
Yet kind my noble landlord's part,-
God bless the house of Beaudesert!
And, but I loved to drive the deer,
More than to guide the labouring steer,
I had not dwelt an outcast here.
Come, good old Minstrel, follow me;
Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see."

XII.

Then, from a rusted iron hook,
A bunch of ponderous keys he took,
Lighted a torch, and Allan led

I

Through grated arch and passage dread.
Portals they pass'd, where, deep within,
Spoke prisoner's moan, and fetters' din;
Through rugged vaults, where, loosely stored,
Lay wheel, and axe, and headsman's sword,
And many an hideous engine grim,
For wrenching joint, and crushing limb,'
By artist form'd, who deem'd it shame
And sin to give their work a name.
They halted at a low-brow'd porch,
And Brent to Allan gave the torch,

While bolt and chain he backward roll'd,
And made the bar unhasp its hold..

They enter'd:-'twas a prison-room

Of stern security and gloom,

Yet not a dungeon; for the day

Through lofty gratings found its way,

And rude and antique garniture

Deck'd the sad walls and oaken floor; 3.

Such as the rugged days of old

Deem'd fit for captive noble's hold.

66

Here," said De Brent, "thou mayst remain

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Till the Leech visit him again.

Strict is his charge, the warders tell,
To tend the noble prisoner well."
Retiring then the bolt he drew,

And the lock's murmurs growl'd anew.
Roused at the sound, from lowly bed
A captive feebly raised his head;
The wondering Minstrel look'd, and knew-
Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu!
For, come from where Clan-Alpine fought,
They, erring, deem'd the Chief he sought.

XIII.

As the tall ship, whose lofty prore
Shall never stem the billows more,
Deserted by her gallant band,
Amid the breakers lies astrand,―
So, on his couch, lay Roderick Dhu!
And oft his fever'd limbs he threw
In toss abrupt, as when her sides
Lie rocking in the advancing tides,
That shake her frame with ceaseless beat,
Yet cannot heave her from her seat ;-
O! how unlike her course at sea!'
Or his free step on hill and lea!—
Soon as the Minstrel he could scan,

"What of thy lady?—of my clan?, My mother ?-Douglas ?-tell me all? Have they been ruin'd in my fall? Ah, yes! or wherefore art thou here! Yet speak,-speak boldly,-do not fear.” (For Allan, who his mood well knew, Was choked with grief and terror too.)— "Who fought-who fled ?-Old man, be brief;Some might for they had lost their Chief. Who basely live?—who bravely died ?”– "O, calm thee, Chief!" the Minstrel cried, "Ellen is safe; -"For that thank Heaven! "And hopes are for the Douglas given ;The Lady Margaret too is well,

And, for thy clan,-on field or fell,

Has never harp of minstrel told, *

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But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks
Chequer'd his swarthy brow and cheeks.
"Hark, Minstrel! I have heard thee play,
With measure bold, on festal day,

In yon lone isle, . . . again where ne'er
Shall harper play, or warrior hear ! . . .
That stirring air that peals on high,
O'er Dermid's race our victory.-

I

Strike it! -and then (for well thou canst,)

Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced,

Fling me the picture of the fight,
When met my clan the Saxon might.

I'll listen, till my fancy hears

The clang of swords, the crash of spears!

These grates, these walls, shall vanish then,
For the fair field of fighting men,

And my free spirit burst away,
As if it soar'd from battle-fray."

'There are several instances, at least in tradition, of persons so much attached to particular tunes, as to require to hear them on their deathbed. Such an anecdote is mentioned by the late Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, in his collection of Border tunes, respecting an air called the "Dandling of the Bairns," for which a certain Gallovidian laird is said to have evinced this strong mark of partiality. It is popularly told of a famous freebooter, that he composed the tune known by the name of Macpherson's Rant while under sentence of death, and played it at the gallows-tree. Some spirited words have been adapted to it by Burns. A similar story is recounted of a Welsh bard, who composed and played on his deathbed the air called Dafyddy Garregg Wen. But the most curious example is given by Brantome, of a maid of honour at the court of France, entitled, Mademoiselle de Limeuil. “Durant sa maladie, dont elle trespassa, jamais elle ne cessa, ains causa tousjours; car elle estoit fort grande parleuse, brocardeuse, et très-bien et fort à propos, et très-belle avec cela. Quand l'heure de sa fin fut venue, elle fit venir a soy son valet, (ainsi que les filles de la cour en ont chacune un,) qui s'appelloit Julien, et scavoit très-bien jouer du violon. 'Julien,' luy dit elle, prenez vostre violon, et sonnez moy tousjours jusques a ce que me Voyez morte (car je m'y en vais) la défaite des Suisses, et le mieux que vous pourrez, et quand vous serez sur le mot, 'Tout est perdu,' sonnez le par quatre ou cing fois, le plus piteusement que vous pourrez,' ce qui fit l'autre, et elle-mesme luy aidoit de la voix, et quand ce vint tout est perdu,' elle le réitera par deux fois; et se tournant de l'autre costé du chevet, elle dit à ses compagnes : Tout est perdu à ce coup, et à bon escient;' et ainsi décéda. Voila une morte joyeuse et plaisante. Je tiens ce conte de deux de ses compagnes, dignes de foi, qui virent jouer ce mystere."-OEuvres de Brantome, iii. 507. The tune to which this fair lady chose to make lier final exit was composed on the defeat of the Swiss at Marignano. The burden is quoted by Panurge, in Rabelais, and consists of these words, imitating the jargon of the Swiss, which is a mixture of French and German :

"Tout est velore

La Tintelore,

Tout est verlore, bi Got!"

The trembling Bard with awe obey'd,-
Slow on the harp his hand he laid;
But soon remembrance of the sight
He witness'd from the mountain's height,
With what old Bertram told at night,'
Awaken'd the full power of song,
And bore him in career along ;-
As shallop launch'd on river's tide,
That slow and fearful leaves the side,
But, when it feels the middle stream,
Drives downward swift as lightning's beam.

XV.

BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUINE."

"The Minstrel came once more to view

The eastern ridge of Benvenue,

For, ere he parted, he would say
Farewell to lovely Loch Achray—
Where shall he find, in foreign land,.
So lone a lake, so sweet a strand!-
There is no, breeze upon the fern,
No ripple on the lake,

Upon her eyry nods the erne,

The deer has sought the brake;

[The MS. has not this line.]

↑ A skirmish actually took place at a pass thus called in the Trosachs, and closed with the remarkable incident mentioned in the text. It was greatly posterior in date to the reign of James V.

"In this roughly-wooded island,* the country people secreted their wives and children, and their most valuable effects, from the rapacity of Cromwell's soldiers, during their inroad into this country, in the time of the republic. These invaders, not venturing to ascend by the ladders, along the side of the lake, took a more circuitous road, through the heart of the Trosachs, the most frequented path at that time, which penetrates the wilderness about half way between Binean and the lake, by a tract called Yeachilleach, or the Old Wife's Bog. "In one of the defiles of this by-road, the men of the country at that time hung upon the rear of the invading enemy, and shot one of Cromwell's men, whose grave marks the scene of action, and gives name to that pass.** In revenge of this insult the soldiers resolved to plunder the island, to violate the women, and put the children to death. With this brutal intention, one of the party, more expert than the rest, swam towards the island, to fetch the boat to his comrades, which had carried the women to their asylum, and lay moored in one of the creeks. His companions stood on the shore of the mainland, in full view of all that was to pass, waiting anxiously for his return with the boat. But just as the swimmer had got to the nearest point of the island, and was laying hold of a black rock, to get on shore, a heroine, who stood on the very point where he meant to land, hastily snatching a dagger from below her apron, with one stroke severed his head from the body. His party seeing this disaster, and relinquishing all future hope of revenge or conquest, made the best of their way out of their perilous situation. This amazon's great-grandson lives at Bridge of Turk, who, besides others, attests the anecdote."-Sketch of the Scenery near Callender. Stirling. 1806, p. 20. I have only to add to this account, that the heroine's name was Helen Stuart.

That at the eastern extremity of Loch Katrine, so often mentioned inthe text.. **Beallach an duine.

The small birds will not sing aloud,
The springing trout lies still,
So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud,
That swathes, as with a purple shroud,
Benledi's distant hill.

Is it the thunder's solemn sound
That mutters deep and dread,
Or echoes from the groaning ground
The warrior's measured tread ?
Is it the lightning's quivering glance
That on the thicket streams,
Or do they flash on spear and lance
The sun's retiring beams?

-I see the dagger-crest of Mar,
I see the Moray's silver star,
Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war,

That up the lake comes winding far!
To hero bound for battle-strife,
Or bard of martial lay,

"Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,

One glance at their array!

XVI.

"Their light-arm'd archers far and near
Survey'd the tangled ground;

Their centre ranks, with pike and spear,
A twilight forest frown'd;

Their barbed horsemen, in the rear,

The stern battalia crown'd.

No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang,
Still were the pipe and drum;

Save heavy tread, and armour's clang,

The sullen march was dumb.

There breathed no wind their crests to shake,

Or wave their flags abroad;

Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake,

That shadow'd o'er their road.

Their vaward scouts no tidings bring,

Can rouse no lurking foe,

Nor spy a trace of living thing,

Save when they stirr'd the roe;
The host moves, like a deep-sea wave,
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave,
High-swelling, dark, and slow.

The lake is pass'd, and now they gain
A narrow and a broken plain,
Before the Trosachs' rugged jaws;

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