His blood shall bound at rapture's glow, 175 Our father's towers o'erhang her side, Though doom'd to stain the Saxon spear.

The castle of the bold Glengyle.

"To chase the dun Glenfin las deer

Our woodland course this morn we bore, And haply met, while wandering here, The son of great Macgillianore.

"O, aid me, then, to seek the pair,

Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost;
Alone, I dare not venture there,
Where walks, they say, the shrieking
ghost."

Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there; Then, first, my own sad vow to keep, Here will I pour my midnight prayer, Which still must rise when mortals sleep."

"O, first, for pity's gentle sake,

Guide a lone wanderer on her way!
For I must cross the haunted brake,
And reach my father's towers ere day."

"First, three times tell each Ave-bead,1
And thrice a Paternoster2 say,
195 Then kiss with me the holy rede;3

200

So shall we safely wend our way."

"O shame to knighthood, strange and foul!
Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow,
And shroud thee in the monkish cowl,
Which best befits thy sullen vow.

"Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire, Thy heart was froze to love and joy, When gaily rung thy raptured lyre

To wanton Morna's melting eye."

205 Wild stared the minstrel's eyes of flame,
And high his sable locks arose,
And quick his color went and came,
As fear and rage alternate rose.

210

"And who art thou? and who are they?"
All ghastly gazing, Moy replied:
"And why, beneath the moon's pale ray,
Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side? 215

"Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide,
Blue, dark and deep, round many an
isle,

The startled red-deer scuds the plain,

For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound

Has roused their mountain haunts again.

Through the huge oaks of Evandale,

"O change accursed! past are those days; False Murray's ruthless spoilers came,

Whose limbs a thousand years have 95 And, for the hearth's domestic blaze,

worn,

Ascends destruction's volumed flame.

"What sheeted phantom wanders wild,
Where mountain Eske through wood-
land flows,

Her arms enfold a shadowy child-
Oh! is it she, the pallid rose?

"The wilder'd traveller sees her glide,
And hears her feeble voice with awe;
'Revenge,' she cries, 'on Murray's pride!
And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh!'"'
105 He ceased; and cries of rage and grief

Struggling in blood the savage lies;
His roar is sunk in hollow groan-
Sound, merry huntsmen! sound the 110
pryse.1

'Tis noon against the knotted oak

The hunters rest the idle spear;
Curls through the trees the slender smoke,
Where yeomen dight2 the woodland 115

cheer.

Burst mingling from the kindred band, And half arose the kindling Chief,

And half unsheathed his Arran brand.

But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and rock,
Rides headlong, with resistless speed,
Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke
Drives to the leap his jaded steed;

Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare,
As one some vision'd sight that saw,
Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair?-
'Tis he! 'tis he! 'tis Bothwellhaugh.

From gory selle,1 and reeling steed,
Sprung the fierce horseman with a
bound,

And, reeking from the recent deed,

He dash'd his carbine on the ground.

Sternly he spoke: ""Tis sweet to hear
In good greenwood the bugle blown,
But sweeter to Revenge's ear,

To drink a tyrant's dying groan.

1 saddle