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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 tatter'd weeds and wild array,'
Stood on a cliff beside the way,
And glancing round her restless eye,
Upon the wood, the rock, the sky,
Seem'd nought to mark, yet all to spy.
Her brow was wreath'd 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 shriek'd till all the rocks replied;
As loud she laugh'd when near they drew,
For then the Lowland garb she knew;
And then her hands she wildly wrung,
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 strain'd and roughen'd, still
Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill.




They bid me sleep, they bid me Bray,
They say my brain is warp'd and wrung-

I cannot sleep on Highland brae,
I cannot pray in Highland tongue.
But were I now where Allan' glides,

[MS.-"Wrapp'd in a tatter'd mantle gray."]

[The Allan and Devan are two beautiful streams, the latter celebrated in the poetry of Burns, which descend from the hills of Perthshire into the great carse, or plain, of Stirling.]

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 made 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 drown'd 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 gray,
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 foray'd Devan-side.
The gay bridegroom resistance made,
And felt our Chief's unconquer'd 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 pitch'd a bar!

“Thanks, champion, thanks!” the Maniac cried,
And press'd 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,3
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,

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"For O my sweet William was forester true,' He stole poor Blanche's heart away!

His coat it was all the greenwood hue,

And so blithely he trill'd the Lowland lay!

66 It was not that I meant to tell..
But thou art wise, and guessest well.”
Then, in a low and broken tone,
And hurried note, the song went on.
Still on the Clansman, fearfully,
She fix'd her apprehensive eye;

Then turn❜d it on the Knight, and then
Her look glanced wildly o'er the glen.


"The toils are pitch'd, and the stakes are set, Ever sing merrily, merrily;

The bows they bend, and the knives they whet, Hunters live so cheerily.

"It was a stag, a stag of ten,'

Bearing his branches sturdily;

He came stately down the glen,
Ever sing hardily, hardily.

"It was there he met with a wounded doe,

She was bleeding deathfully;

She warn'd him of the toils below,
O, so faithfully, faithfully!

"He had an eye, and he could heed,
Ever sing warily, warily;

[MS.-"Sweet William was a woodsman true,
He stole poor Blanche's heart away!

His coat was of the forest hue,
And sweet he sung the Lowland lay."]

2 Having ten branches on his antlers.

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Fitz-James's mind was passion-toss'd,
When Ellen's hints and fears were lost;
But Murdoch's shout suspicion wrought,
And Blanche's song conviction brought.-
Not like a stag that spies the snare,
But lion of the hunt aware,

He waved at once his blade on high,
"Disclose thy treachery, or die!"
Forth at full speed the Clansman flew,
But in his race his bow he drew.
The shaft just grazed Fitz-James's crest,
And thrill'd in Blanche's faded breast,-
Murdoch of Alpine! prove thy speed,
For ne'er had Alpine's son such need!
With heart of fire, and foot of wind,
The fierce avenger is behind!
Fate judges of the rapid strife-
The forfeit death-the prize is life!
Thy kindred ambush lies before,

Close couch'd upon the heathery moor;
Them couldst thou reach!-it may not be-3
Thine ambush'd kin thou ne'er shalt see,
The fiery Saxon gains on thee !
-Resistless speeds the deadly thrust,
As lightning strikes the pine to dust;

With foot and hand Fitz-James must strain,

Ere he can win his blade again.

Bent o'er the fall'n, with falcon eye, 4
He grimly smiled to see him die;

["No machinery can be conceived more clumsy for effecting the deliverance of a distressed hero, than the introduction of a mad woman, who, without knowing or caring about the wanderer, warns him, by a song, to take care of the ambush that was set for him. The maniacs of poetry have indeed had a prescriptive right to be musical, since the days of Ophelia downwards; but it is rather a rash extension of this privilege to make them sing good sense, and to make sensible people be guided by them."-JEFFREY.]

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