« 前へ次へ »
The calm was
more dreadful than raging storm, When the cold grey mist brought the
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
The deeds of our sires if our bards GELLATLEY sings :
should rehearse, Young men will love thee more fair Let a blush or a blow be the meed of and more fast;
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,
every tone, And the throstle-cock's head is under
That shall bid us remember the fame his wing.
that is flown.
But the dark hours of night and of The young man's wrath is like light
slumber are past, straw on fire;
The morn on our mountains is dawning Hcard ye so merry the little bird sing?
at last; But like red-hot steel is the old man's
Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with ire, And the throstle-cock's head is under his wing.
And the streams of Glenfinnan 2 leap
bright in the blaze. The young man will brawl at the
O high-minded Moray!:—the exiledevening board ;
the dear!Heard ye so merry the little bird sing?
In the blush of the dawning the But the old man will draw at the
STANDARD uprear! dawning the sword, And the throstle-cock's head is under Wide, wide on the winds of the north
let it fly, his wing.
Like the sun's latest flash when the Chap. xiv.
tempest is nigh ! Ye sons of the strong, when that
dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you FLORA MACIVOR'S SONG.
to wake? There is mist on the mountain, and That dawn never beam'd on your night on the vale,
forefathers' eye, But more dark is the sleep of the sons But it roused each high chieftain to of the Gael.
vanquish or die. A stranger commanded-it sunk on the land,
[1 In Moidart, where Prince Charlie landed in 1745. It has frozen each heart, and be [2 Where he displayed his standard. )
(3 Brother of the Marquis of Tullibardine, long numb'd every hand !
a Jacobite exile.)
O, sprung from the kings who in Mac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of Islay kept state,
the Lake, Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glen For honour, for freedom, for vengarry, and Sleat!
geance awake! Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow,
Awake on your hills, on your islands And resistless in union rush down on
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, the foe.
and the lake! True son of Sir Evan, undaunted 'Tis the bugle- but not for the chase Lochiel,
is the call ; Place thy targe on thy shoulder and 'Tis the pibroch's shrill summonsburnish thy steel !
but not to the hall. Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy
'Tis the summons of heroes for conbugle's bold swell, Tillfar Coryarrick resoundtotheknell!
quest or death, When the banners are blazing on
mountain and heath; Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail,
They call to the dirk, the claymore,
and the targe, Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale !
To the march and the muster, the
line and the charge. May the race of Clan-Gillean, the fearless and free,
Be the brand of each chieftain like Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and
Fin's in his ire!
May the blood through his veins flow
like currents of fire ! Let the clan of grey Fingon, whose
Burst the base foreign yoke as your offspring has given
sires did of yore! Such heroes to earth, and such
Or die, like your sires, and endure martyrs to heaven,
it no more! Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri More,
Chap. xxi. To launch the long galley, and stretch to the oar!
FERGUS sings :How Mac-Shiniei will joy when their
O Lady of the desert, hail ! chief shall display
That lovest the harping of the Gael, The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses
Through fair and fertile regions borne, of grey!
Where never yet grew grass or corn. How the race of wrong'd Alpine and And again :
murder'd Glencoe Shall shout for revenge when they O vous, qui buvez à tasse pleine,
A cette heureuse fontaine, pour on the foe!
Où on ne voit sur le rivage Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew
Que quelques vilains troupeaux, the wild boar,
Suivis de nymphes de village,
Qui les escortent sans sabots
Yet who, in Fortune's summer-shine
To waste life's longest term away, TO AN OAK TREE
Would change that glorious dawn of
thine, IN THE CHURCHYARD OF
Though darken'd ere its noontide HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND, SAID TO
day? MARK THE GRAVE OF CAPTAIN WOGAN, KILLED IN 1649.
Be thine the Tree whose dauntless
boughs EMBLEM of England's ancient faith,
Brave summer's drought and Full proudly may thy branches
winter's gloom ! wave,
Rome bound with oak her patriots Where loyalty lies low in death,
brows, And valour fills a timeless grave.
As Albyn shadows Wogan's tomb.
Chap. xxix. And thou, brave tenant of the tomb !
Repine not if our clime deny, Above thine honour'd sod to bloom, The flowrets of a milder sky.
GELLATLEY sings :These owe their birth to genial May ; [They came upon us in the night, Beneath a fiercer sun they pine,
And brake my bower and slew my Before the winter storm decay
knight; And can their worth be type of My servants a? for life did flee thine ?
And left us in extremitie.
No! for, 'mid storms of Fate opposing, They slew my knight to me sae dear; Still higher swell’d thy dauntless
They slew my knight, and drave his heart,
gear;] And, while Despair the scene was
The moon may set, the sun may rise, closing,
But a deadly sleep has closed his eyes. Commenced thy brief but brilliant part.
But follow, follow me, 'Twas then thou sought'st on Albyn's
While glowworms light the lea, hill
I'll show ye where the dead should
be(When England's sons the strife resign’d)
Each in his shroud, A rugged race, resisting still,
While winds pipe loud, And unsubdued, though unrefined.
And the red moon peepsdim through
the cloud. Thy. death's hour heard no kindred
Follow, follow me;
Brave should he be
That treads by night the dead man's lea. Thy dirge the clamorous pibroch
Chap. LXIII. sung.
THE GIPSY'S DIRGE.
(By MEG MERRILIES.) FROM GUY MANNERING.
WASTED, weary, wherefore stay, THE NATIVITY CHANT. Wrestling thus with earth and clay?
From the body pass away ;-
Hark! the mass is singing.
From thee doff thy mortal weed
Mary Mother be thy speed, Sign wi' cross, and sain wi' mass.
Saints to help thee at thy need ;
Hark! the knell is ringing. Trefoil, vervain, John's-wort, dill, Fcar not snowdrift driving fast, Hinders witches of their will;
Sleet, or hail, or levin blast; Weel is them, that weel may
Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast, Fast upon Saint Andrew's day.
And the sleep be on thee cast Saint Bride and her brat,
That shall ne'er know waking. Saint Colme and her cat,
Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone, Saint Michael and his spear,
Earth flits fast, and time draws on, -Keep the house frae reif and wear. Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan, Chap. III.
Day is near the breaking.
Come death, and pass life.
THE PROPHECY. Mingle shades of joy and woe,
(By MEG MERRILIES.) Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife, In the thread of human life.
The dark shall be light,
And the wrong made right, While the mystic twist is spinning,
When Bertram's right and Bertram's And the infant's life beginning,
Gin by pailfuls, wine in rivers,
Dash the window-glass to shivers, Now they wax, and now they dwindle, For three wild lads were we, brave Whirling with the whirling spindle.
boys, Twist ye, twine ye! even so
And three wild lads were we; Mingle human bliss and woe.
Thou on the land, and I on the sand, Chap. II.
And Jack on the gallows-tree !
Now haud your tongue, baith wise
and carle, And listen, great and sma', And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl
That fought on the red Harlaw. The cronach's cried on Bennachie,
And doun the Don and a',
• Know'st thou not me?' the Deep
Voice cried ; 'So long enjoy'd, so oft misused Alternate, in thy fickle pride,
Desired, neglected, and accused ! * Before my breath, like blazing flax,
Man and his marvels pass away! And changing empires wane and wax,
Are founded, flourish, and decay. • Redeem mine hours-the space is
brief While in my glass the sand-grains
shiver, And measureless thy joy or grief When Time and thou shall part for
ever!' Chap. x.
They saddled a hundred milk-white
steeds, They hae bridled a hundred black, With a chafron of steel on each
horse's head, And a good knight upon his back.
They hadna ridden a mile, a mile,
A mile, but barely ten,
Heir lyeth John o’ye Girnell;
stokit. He deled a boll o' bear in firlottis fyve, Four for ye halie kirke and ane for
pure mennis wyvis. Chap. XI,
Their tartans they were waving wide,
Their glaives were glancing clear, The pibrochs rung frae side to side,
Would deafen ye to hear. The great Earl in his stirrups stood,
That Highland host to see ; Now here a knight that's stout and
good May prove a jeopardie : • What would'st thou do, my squire
so gay, That rides beside my reyne, Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day,
And I were Roland Cheyne ?