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And, by the watchfire's glimmering light,
Close by the Minstrel's side was seen
A huntress maid, in beauty bright,

All dropping wet her robes of green.

All dropping wet her garments seem;
Chilled was her cheek, her bosom bare,
As, bending o'er the dying gleam,,^
She wrung the moisture from her hair.

With maiden blush she softly said,

"O gentle huntsman, hast thou seen,
In deep Glenfinlas' moonlight glade,
A lovely maid in vest of green:

"With her a chief in Highland pride;
His shoulders bear the hunter's bow,
The mountain dirk adorns his side,
Far on the wind his tartans flow?"

"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?"

"Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide,
Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle,
Our father's towers o'erhang her side,
The castle of the bold Glengyle.

"To chase the dun Glenfinlas' 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,
And thrice a Paternoster say;

Then kiss with me the holy reed:
So shall we safely wind 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 gayly rung thy raptured lyre,
To wanton Morna's melting eye."

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

"And thou! when by the blazing oak
I lay, to her and love resigned,
Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke,

Or sailed ye on the midnight wind?

"Not thine a race of mortal blood,

Nor old Glengyle's pretended line; Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood,

Thy sire, the monarch of the Mine."

He muttered thrice St. Oran's rhyme,
And thrice St. Fillan's powerful prayer;
Then turned him to the eastern clime,
And sternly shook his coal-black hair.

And, bending o'er his harp, he flung

His wildest witchnotes on the wind; And loud, and high, and strange, they rung, As many a magic change they find.

Tall waxed the Spirit's altering form,
Till to the roof her stature grew;
Then, mingling with the rising storm,
With one wild yell, away she flew.

Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear:
The slender hut in fragments flew;
But not a lock of Moy's loose hair
Was waved by wind, or wet by dew.

Wild mingling with the howling gale,
Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise;
High o'er the minstrel's head they sail,
And die amid the northern skies.

The voice of thunder shook the wood,
As ceased the more than mortal yell;
And, spattering foul, a shower of blood
Upon the hissing firebrands fell.

Next, dropped from high a mangled arm;
The fingers strained a halfdrawn blade:
And last, the life-blood streaming warm,
Torn from the trunk, a gasping head.

Oft o'er that head, in battling field,

Streamed the proud crest of high Benmore; That arm the broad claymore could wield, Which died the Teith with Saxon gore.

Wo to Moneira's sullen rills!

Wo to Glenfinlas' dreary glen! There never son of Albin's hills

Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen!

E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet
At noon shall shun that sheltering den,
Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet
The wayward ladies of the Glen.

And we, behind the chieftain's shield,
No more shall we in safety dwell;
None leads the people to the field,
And we the loud lament must swell.

O hone a rie'! O hone a rie'!

The pride of Albin's line is o'er, And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree; We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!

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