Their fluttering length down favouring gale! Aboard, aboard! and hoist the sail

Hold we our way for Arran first,

Where meet in arms our friends dispersed ;

Lennox the loyal, De la Haye,

And Boyd the bold in battle fray.

I long the hardy band to head,

And see once more my standard spread.....
Does noble Ronald share our course,

Or stay to raise his island force ?”--

"Come weal, come woe, by Bruce's side," Replied the Chief, "will Ronald bide.

And since two gallies yonder ride,

Be mine, so please my liege, dismiss'd

To wake to arms the clans of Uist,
And all who hear the Minche's roar,
On the Long Island's lonely shore.
The nearer Isles, with slight delay,
Ourselves may summon in our way;

And soon on Arran's shore shall meet,

With Torquil's aid, a gallant fleet,
If aught avails their Chieftain's hest

Among the islesmen of the west."-

But, ere their sails the galleys spread,

Coriskin dark and Coolin high
Echoed the dirge's doleful cry.

Along that sable lake pass'd slow,—
Fit scene for such a sight of woe,-
The sorrowing islesmen, as they bore
The murder'd Allan to the shore.
At every pause, with dismal shout,

Their coronach of grief rung out,

And ever, when they moved again,
The pipes resumed their clamorous strain,

And, with the pibroch's shrilling wail,
Mourn'd the young heir of Donagaile.

Round and around, from cliff and cave,

His answer stern old Coolin gave,

Till high upon his misty side

Languish'd the mournful notes, and died.
For never sounds, by mortal made,
Attain'd his high and haggard head,
That echoes but the tempest's moan,
Or the deep thunder's rending groan.

VII.

Merrily, merrily bounds the bark,

She bounds before the gale,

The mountain breeze from Ben-na-darch

Is joyous in her sail!

With fluttering sound like laughter hoarse,

The cords and canvass strain,

The waves, divided by her force,

In rippling eddies chased her course,

As if they laugh'd again.

Not down the breeze more blithely flew,

Skimming the wave, the light sea-mew,

Than the gay galley bore

Her course upon that favouring wind,
And Coolin's crest has sunk behind,

And Slapin's cavern'd shore.

'Twas then that warlike signals wake Dunscaith's dark towers and Eisord's lake,

And soon, from Cavilgarrigh's head,

Thick wreaths of eddying smoke were spread

A summons thèse of war and wrath

To the brave clans of Sleat and Strath,

And, ready at the sight,

Each warrior to his weapons sprung,

And targe upon his shoulder flung,

Impatient for the fight.

Mac-Kinnon's chief, in warfare grey,
Had charge to muster their array,

And guide their barks to Brodick-Bay.

VIII.

Signal of Ronald's high command,
A beacon gleam'd o'er sea and land,

From Canna's tower, that, steep and
Like falcon-nest o'erhangs the bay.
Seek not the giddy crag to climb,
To view the turret scathed by time;
It is a task of doubt and fear

To aught but goat or mountain-deer.

But rest thee on the silver beach,

And let the aged herdsman teach

His tale of former day;

grey,

His cur's wild clamour he shall chide,

And for thy seat by ocean's side,

His varied plaid display;

Then tell, how with their Chieftain came,

In ancient times, a foreign dame

To yonder turret grey.