All in the Trosach's glen was still,
Noontide was sleeping on the hill :
Sudden his guide whoop'd loud and high—
"Murdoch! was that a signal cry?"
He stammer'd forth,-"I shout to scare1
Yon raven from his dainty fare."
He look'd-he knew the raven's prey,
His own brave steed:-"Ah! gallant grey!
For thee-for me, perchance-'twere well
We ne'er had seen the Trosach's 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.
[MS.-"He stammer'd forth confused reply:
Yon raven from his dainty fare.'"]
[MS." Wrapp'd in a tatter'd mantle gray.")
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 pray,
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,
Or heard my native Devan's tides,
So sweetly would I rest, and pray
That heaven would close my wintry day!
1 [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.]
'Twas thus my hair they bade me braid,
They bade 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.
66 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,1
"A crased 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!"-
1 [MS.-"A Saxon born, a crazy maid
'Tis Blanche of Devan,' Murdosh said."]
"Thanks, champion, thanks!" the Maniac cried,
And press'd her to Fitz-James's side.
"See the grey pennons I prepare,1
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 staid,
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 truc,3 He stole poor Blanche's heart
1 [MS.-"With thee these pennons will I share,
Then seek my true love through the air."]
2 [MS. "But I'll not lend that savage groom,
To break his fall one downy plume!
Deep, deep 'mid yon disjointed stones,
The wolf shall batten on his bones."]
[MS. "Sweet William was a woodsman true, He stole poor Blanche's heart away!]
His coat it was all of the greenwood hue,1 And so blithely he trill'd 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 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 singing merrily, merrily;
The bows they bend, and the knives they whet, Hunters live so cheerily.
"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!
1 [MS.-"His coat was of the forest hue,
And sweet he sung the Lowland lay.") 'Having ten branches on his antlers.
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