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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 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 strained and roughened, still
Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill.



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 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 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,

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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 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 strik'st 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, 560
And pressed her to Fitz-James's side.
"See the gray 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 brier in mid-air stayed,
Wave forth a banner fair and free,
Meet signal for their revelry."


"Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still!"
"O! 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.

"For O my sweet William was forester true,
He stole poor Blanche's heart away!
His coat it was all of the greenwood hue,

And so blithely he trilled the Lowland lay!

"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 fixed her apprehensive eye,


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


"The toils are pitched, 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 its 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 warned him of the toils below,

O, so faithfully, faithfully!

"He had an eye, and he could heed,

Ever sing warily, warily;

He had a foot, and he could speed,
Hunters watch so narrowly."

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Fitz-James's mind was passion-tossed,
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 thrilled 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 couched upon the heathery moor;
Them couldst thou reach!—it may not be
Thine ambushed 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 fallen with falcon eye,

He grimly smiled to see him die,

Then slower wended back his way,
Where the poor maiden bleeding lay.


She sat beneath the birchen tree,
Her elbow resting on her knee;







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