LINES BY CAPTAIN WAVERLEY ON RECEIVING HIS COMMISSION IN LATE, when the autumn evening fell But distant winds began to wake, And bade his surge in thunder speak. Yet, with a stern delight and strange, Upon the ruin'd tower I stood, So, on the idle dreams of youth The calm was more dreadful than raging storm, When the cold grey mist brought the ghastly form! Chap. XIII. GELLATLEY sings: YOUNG men will love thee more fair and more fast; The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust, The bloodless claymore is but redden'd with rust; On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear, It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer. The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse, Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse! Heard ye so merry the little bird sing? Be mute every string, and be hush'd Old men's love the longest will last, And the throstle-cock's head is under his wing. The young man's wrath is like light straw on fire; Heard ye so merry the little bird sing? But like red-hot steel is the old man's ire, And the throstle-cock's head is under his wing. every tone, That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown. But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past, The morn on our mountains is dawning at last; Glenaladale's' peaks are illumed with the rays, And the streams of Glenfinnan 2 leap bright in the blaze. O high-minded Moray!"-the exiledthe dear! The young man will brawl at the But the old man will draw at the dawning the sword, And the throstle-cock's head is under Wide, wide on the winds of the north his wing. Chap. XIV. FLORA MACIVOR'S SONG. THERE is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale, But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael. A stranger commanded-it sunk on the land, It has frozen each heart, and benumb'd every hand! let it fly, Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh! Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break, Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake? That dawn never beam'd on your forefathers' eye, But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die. [ In Moidart, where Prince Charlie landed in 1745[2 Where he displayed his standard.] [3 Brother of the Marquis of Tullibardine, long a Jacobite exile.] O, sprung from the kings who in Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow, And resistless in union rush down on the foe. True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel, Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel! Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell, Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell! Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail, Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale! May the race of Clan-Gillean, the Let the clan of grey Fingon, whose offspring has given Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven, Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri More, To launch the long galley, and stretch to the oar! How Mac-Shinei will joy when their chief shall display The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey ! How the race of wrong'd Alpine and murder'd Glencoe Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe! Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar, Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More! Mac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake, For honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake! Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake! 'Tis the bugle-but not for the chase is the call; 'Tis the pibroch's shrill summonsbut not to the hall. 'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death, When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath; They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe, To the march and the muster, the line and the charge. Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire! May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire! Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore! Or die, like your sires, and endure it no more! Chap. XXII. FERGUS sings: O LADY of the desert, hail! And again : O vous, qui buvez à tasse pleine, Que quelques vilains troupeaux, |