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Or the mermaid of the wave,
Frame thee in some coral cave ?
Did in Iceland's darksome mine
Dwarf's swart hands thy metal twine ?
Or, mortal-moulded, comest thou here,
From England's love, or France's fear?

XII. ' .

Song continued.
“ No !- thy splendours nothing tell
Foreign art or faëry spell. .
Moulded thou for monarch's use,
By the over-weening Bruce,
When the royal robe he tied
O’er a heart of wrath and pride;
Thence in triumph wert thou torn,
By the victor hand of Lorn!

66 When the gem was won and lost, Widely was the war-cry toss'd! .

Rung aloud Bendqurish Fell,
Answer'd Douchart's sounding dell,

Fled the deer from wild Teyndrum,
. When the homicide, o'ercome,
Hardly 'scaped with scathe and scorn,
Left the pledge with conquering Lorn !

. . : XIII.

Song concluded, “ Vain was then the Douglas brand, Vain the Campbell's vaunted hand, Vain Kirkpatrick's bloody dirk, Making sure of murder's work; Barendown fled fast away, Fled the fiery De la Haye, When this broach, triumphant borne, Beam'd upon the breast of Lorn.

“ Farthest fed its former Lord,
Left his men'to brand and cord,

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Bloody brand of Highland steel,
English gibbet, axe, and wheel.
Let him fly from coast to coast, .
Dogg'd by Comyn’s vengeful ghost,
While his spoils, in triumph worn,
Long shall grace victorious Lorn!"

. .

XIV.

As glares the tiger on his foes,
Hemm'd in by hunters, spears, and bows,
And, ere he bounds upon the ring,
Selects the object of his spring,~'.
Now on the bard, now on his Lord,
So Edward glared and grasp'd his sword—
But stern his brother spoke --- Be still.
6 What! art thou yet so wild of will,
After high deeds and sufferings long,
To chafe thee for a menial's song ?-
Well hast thou framed, Old Man, thy strains,
To praise the hand that pays thy pains; .

Yet something might thy song have told
Of Lorn's three vassals, true and bold,
Who rent their Lord from Bruce's hold,
As underneath his knee he lay, .
And died to save him in the fray.
I've heard the Bruce's cloak and clasp
Was clench'd within their dying grasp,
What time a hundred foemen more
Rush'd in and back the victor bore,
Long after Lorn had left the strife,
Full glad to 'scape with limb and life.
Enough of this-And, Minstrel, hold,
As minstrel-hire, this chain of gold,
For future lays a fair excuse,
To speak more nobly of the Bruce.”--

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XV. “ Now, by Columba’s shrine, I swear, And every saint that's buried there,

'Tis he himself !” Lorn sternly cries,
6 And for my kinsman's death he dies." -
As loudly Ronald calls Forbear!
Not in my sight while brand I wear,
O'er-match'd by odds, shall warrior fall,
Or blood of stranger stain my hall !
This ancient fortress of my race
Shall be misfortune's resting-place,
Shelter and shield of the distress'd,
No slaughter-house for ship-wreck'd guest.”—
“ Talk not to me,” fierce Lorn replied,
“ Of odds or match !--when Comyn died,
Three daggers clash'd within his side!
Talk not to me of sheltering hall,
The Church of God saw Comyn fall!
On God's own altar stream'd his blood,
While o'er my prostrate kinsman stood
The ruthless murderer--e'en as now
With armed hand and scornful brow! --

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