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BORDER MIN STRELSY.

GLENFINLAS; OR, LORD RONALD'S CORONACH.

Tue simple tradition, upon which the following stanzas are founded runs thus: While two Highland hunters were passing the night in a soli. tary bothy (a hut built for the purpose of hunting), and making merry over their venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish, that they had pretty lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two beautiful young women, habited in green, entered tho hut, dancing and singing. One of the hunters was seduced, by the syren who attached herself particularly to him, to leave the hut; the other renained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon & trump, or Jew's harp, some strain consecrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress vanished. Searching in the forest, he found the bones of his unfortunate friend, who had been torn to pieces and devoured by the flend into whose toils he had fallen. The place will from thence called, The Glen of the Green Women.

“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!

0, sprung from great Macgillianore,

The chief that never feared a foe,
How matchless was thy broad claymore,

How deadly thine unerring bow !
Well can the Saxon widows tell,

How, on the Teith's resounding shore,
The boldest Lowland warriors fell,

As down from Lenny's pass you bore.
But o'er the hills, on festal day,

How blazed Lord Ronald's Beltane tree,
While youths and maids the light strathspey

So nimbly danced, with Highland glee.

Cheered by the strength of Ronald's shell,

E'en age forgot his tresses hoar; But now the loud lancent we swell,

O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more!

From distant isles a Chieftain came,

The joys of Ronald's halls to find,
And chase with him the dark-brown game,

That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind.

'Twas Moy; whom in Columba's isle

The seer's prophetic spirit found, As, with a minstrel's fire the while,

He waked his harp's harmonious sound.

Full many a spell to him was known,

Which wandering spirits shrink to hear; And many a lay of potent tone,

Was never meant for mortal ear.

For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood,

High converse with the dead they hold, And oft espy the fated shroud,

That shall the future corpse infold. O so it fell, that on a day,

To rouse the red deer from their den. The chiefs have ta'en their distant way,

And scoured the deep Glenfinlas glen.

No vassals wait their sports to aid,

To watch their safety, deck their board; Their simple dress, the Highland plaid,

Their trusty guard, the Highland sword.

Three summer days, through brake and dell,

Their whistling shafts successful flew; : And still, when dewy evening fell,

The quarry to their hut they arew.

In grey Glenfinlas' deepest pook

The solitary cabin stood,
Fast by Moneira's sullen brook,

Which murmurs through that lonely wood.

Soft fell the night, the sky was calm,

When three successive days had flown; And summer mist in dewy balm

Steeped heathy bank and mossy stone.

The moon, half bid in silvery flakes,

Afar her dubious radiance shed, Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes,

And resting on Benledi's head.

Now in their hut, in social guise,

Their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy ; And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes,

As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy.“What lack we here to crown our bliss,

While thus the pulse of joy beats high ? What, but fair woman's yielding kiss,

Her panting breath, and melting eye? To chase the deer of yonder shades,

This morning left their father's pile The fairest of our mountain maids,

The daughters of the proud Glengyle Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart,

And dropped the tear, and heaved the sigh; But vain the lover's wily art,

Beneath a sister's watchful eye.
But thou mayst teach that guardian fair,

While far with Mary I am flown,
Of other hearts to cease her care,

And find it hard to guard her own. Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see

The lovely Flora of Glengyle, Unmindful of her charge and me,

Hang on thy notes, 'twixt tear and smile.

Or, if she choose a melting tale,

All underneath the greenwood bough, Will good St. Oran's rule prevail,

Stern huntsman of the rigid brow?"

“Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death,

No more on me shall rapture rise, Responsive to the panting breath,

Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes.

E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe,

Where sunk my hopes of love and pain, I bade my harp's wild wailings flow,

On me the Seer's sad spirit came.

The last dread curse of angry Heaven,

With ghastly sights and sounds of woe, To dash each glimpse of joy, was given

The gift, the future ill to know.

The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn,

So gaily part from Oban's bay, My eye beheld her dashed and torn,

Far on the rocky Colonsay.

Thy Fergus too—thy sister's son,

l'hou saw'st, with pride the gallant's power, As marching 'gainst the Lord of Downe,

He left the skirts of huge Benmore.

Thou only saw'st their tartans wave,

As down Benvoirlich's side they wound, Heardst but the pibroch, answering brave

To many a target clanking round.

I heard the groans, I marked the tears,

I saw the wound his bosom bore, When on the serried Saxon spears

He poured his clan's resistless roar,

And thou, who bidd'st me think of bliss,

And bidd'st my heart awake to glee, And court, like thee, the wanton kiss,

That heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee !

I see the death-damps chill thy brow;

I bear thy Warning Spirit cry; The corpse lights dance-they're gone, and now

No more is given to gifted eye ?" Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams,

Sad prophet of the evil hour !
Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams,

Because to-unorrow's storm may lour ?

Or false, or sooth, thy words of woe,
· Clangillian's chieftain ne'er shall fear;
His blood shall bound at rapture's glow,

Though doomed to stain the Saxon spear.

E'en now, to meet me in yon dell,

My Mary's buskins brush the dew;"_ He spoke, nor bade the chief farewell,

But called his dogs, and gay withdrew.

Within an hour returned each hound;

In rushed the rousers of the deer; They howled in melancholy sound,

Then closely couch beside the seer.

No Ronald yet; though midnight came,

And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams, As, bending o'er the dying flame,

He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams.

Sudden the hounds erect their ears,

And sudden cease their moaning howl; Close pressed to Moy, they mark their fears

By shivering limbs and stifled growl.

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