Ere the shadows of midnight fall east from the pile,
To meet with a spirit this night in Glen-Gyle.
Last night in my chamber, all thoughtful and lone,
I called to remembrance some deeds I had done;
When entered a lady, with visage so wan,
And looks such as never were fastened on man.
I knew her, O brother! I knew her too well!
Of that once fair dame such a tale I could tell!
Despairing and mad, to futurity blind,
The present to shun, and some respite to find,
I swore, ere the shadow fell east from the pile,
To meet her alone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.
She told me, and turned my chilled heart to a stone,
The glory and name of Mac Gregor was gone:
That the Pine, which for ages has shed a bright halo
Afar on the mountains of Highland Glen-Falo,
Should wither and fall ere the turn of yon moon,
Smit through by the canker of hated Colquhoun :
That a feast on Mac Gregors each day should be com-
For years, to the eagles of Lenox and Lomond.
A parting embrace, in one moment, she gave;
Her breath was a furnace, her bosom the grave!
Then flitting elusive, she said with a frown,
'The mighty Mac Gregor shall yet be my own!"
Mac Gregor, thy fancies are wild as the wind; The dreams of the night have disordered thy mind. Come buckle thy panoply-march to the field, Show men, and not spirits, thy helmet and shield! Thy fantasies frightful shall flit on the wing, When loud with thy bugle Glen-Lyon shall ring."
Like glimpse of the moon through the storm of the night,
Mac Gregor's red eye shed one sparkle of light:
It faded-it darkened-he shuddered-he sighed,
"No: not for the universe!" low he replied.
Away went Mac Gregor, but went not alone;
To watch the dread rendezvous, Malcolm has gone.
They oared the broad Lomond, so still and serene,
And deep in her bosom, how awful the scene:
O'er mountains inverted the blue waters curled,
And rocked them on skies of a far nether world.
All silent they went, for the time was approaching;
The moon the blue zenith already was touching;
No foot was abroad on the forest or hill,
No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill;
Young Malcolm at distance, crouched, trembling the while
Mac Gregor stood lone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.
Few minutes had passed, ere they spied on the stream
A skiff sailing light, where a lady did seem;
Her sail was the web of a gossamer's loom,
The glow-worm her wake-light, the rainbow her boom
A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast,
Like wold-fire, at midnight, that glares on the waste
Though rough was the river with rock and cascade,
No torrent, no rock, her velocity staid;
She wimpled the water to weather and lee,
And heaved as if borne on the waves of the sea.
Mute nature was roused in the bounds of the glen ;
The wild deer of Girtney abandoned his den,
Fled panting away, over river and isle,
Nor once turned his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle.
The fox fled in terror; the eagle awoke,
As slumbering he dozed in the shelve of the rock:
Astonished, to hide in the moon-beam he flew,
And screwed the high heaven till lost in the blue.
Young Malcolm beheld the pale lady approach, The chieftain salute her, and shrink from the touch;
He saw the Mac Gregor kneel down on the plain,
As begging for something he could not obtain ;
She raised him indignant, derided his stay,
Then bore him on board, set her sail, and away!
Though fast the red bark down the river did glide,
Yet faster ran Malcolm adown by its side;
"Mac Gregor! Mac Gregor!" he bitterly cried;
"Mac Gregor! Mac Gregor!" the echoes replied.
He struck at the lady, but, strange though it seem,
His sword only fell on the rocks and the stream;
But the groans from the boat, that ascended amain,
Were groans from a bosom in horror and pain.
They reached the dark lake, and bore lightly away;
Mac Gregor is vanished forever and aye!
The Pibroch is a sort of wild, martial music among the Scottish Highlanders, usually played on the bagpipe. The following spirited description of a clan-gathering, previous to battle, is from the pen of Walter Scott. The piece should be spoken with great spirit, increasing to the last in impetuosity.
Pibroch of Donell Dhu,
Pibroch of Donell,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan Connell.
Come away, come away;
Hark to the summons !
Come in your war array,
Gentles and commons !
Come from the deep glen, an'
From mountain so rocky;
The war pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlocky.
Come every hill plaid,
And true heart that wears one; Come every steel blade,
And strong hand that bears one.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades;
Forward each man set!
Pibroch of Donell Dhu,
Now for the onset!
The following Ballad was written by CAMPBELL, (pronounced Camel.) Few modern poets have attempted to write Ballads, but the earher poets seem to have transmitted to us little else. Percy's collections of ancient Ballads has been reprinted in the United States, and contains many curious specimens.
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry."
"Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
Oh, I'm the chief of Uloa's isle,
And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.
And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?"
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief—I'm ready;
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:
And by my word the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
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