SONG
OF
HYBRIAS THE CRETAN. My wealth’s a burly spear and brand, And a right good shield of hides untanned, Which on my arm I buckle: With these I plough, I reap, I sow, With these I make the sweet vintage flow, And all around me truckle. But your wights that take no pride to wield A massy spear and well-made shield, Nor joy to draw the sword: Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones, Down in a trice on their marrow-bones, To call me King and Lord.
FRAGMENT
FROM THE GREEK OF ALCMAN. The mountain summits sleep: glens, cliffs and caves, Are silent—all the black earth’s reptile brood— The bees—the wild beasts of the mountain wood: In depths beneath the dark red ocean’s waves Its monsters rest, whilst wrapt in bower and spray Each bird is hushed that stretched its pinions to the day.
MARTIAL ELEGY
FROM THE GREEK OF TYRTÆUS. How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand, In front of battle for their native land! But oh! what ills await the wretch that yields, A recreant outcast from his country’s fields! The mother whom he loves shall quit her home, An agÈd father at his side shall roam; His little ones shall weeping with him go, And a young wife participate his woe; While scorned and scowled upon by every face, They pine for food, and beg from place to place. Stain of his breed! dishonouring manhood’s form, All ills shall cleave to him:—Affliction’s storm Shall blind him wandering in the vale of years, Till, lost to all but ignominious fears, He shall not blush to leave a recreant’s name. And children, like himself, inured to shame. But we will combat for our father’s land, And we will drain the life-blood where we stand To save our children:—fight ye side by side, And serried close, ye men of youthful pride, Disdaining fear, and deeming light the cost Of life itself in glorious battle lost. Leave not our sires to stem the unequal fight, Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant might; Nor lagging backward, let the younger breast Permit the man of age (a sight unblessed) To welter in the combat’s foremost thrust, His hoary head dishevelled in the dust, And venerable bosom bleeding bare. But youth’s fair form, though fallen, is ever fair And beautiful in death the boy appears, The hero boy, that dies in blooming years: In man’s regret he lives, and woman’s tears, More sacred than in life, and lovelier far, For having perished in the front of war.
SPECIMENS OF TRANSLATION FROM “MEDEA.” S?a???? de ?e??? ???d?? t? s?f??? ???? p??s?e ??t??? ??? a? aa?t???. “Medea,” v. 194. p. 33. Glasg. edit. Tell me, ye bards, whose skill sublime First charmed the ear of youthful Time, With numbers wrapt in heavenly fire, Who bade delighted echo swell The trembling transports of the lyre, The murmur of the shell— Why to the burst of Joy alone Accords sweet Music’s soothing tone? Why can no bard, with magic strain, In slumbers steep the heart of pain? While varied tones obey your sweep, The mild, the plaintive, and the deep. Bends not despairing Grief to hear Your golden lute, with ravished ear? Oh! has your sweetest shell no power to bind The fiercer pangs that shake the mind, And lull the wrath at whose command Murder bares her gory hand? When flushed with joy, the rosy throng Weave the light dance, ye swell the song! Cease, ye vain warblers! cease to charm The breast with other raptures warm! Cease! till your hand with magic strain In slumbers steep the heart of pain!
SPEECH OF THE CHORUS
IN THE SAME TRAGEDY, TO DISSUADE MEDEA FROM HER PURPOSE OF PUTTING HER CHILDREN TO DEATH, AND FLYING FOR PROTECTION TO ATHENS. O haggard queen! to Athens dost thou guide Thy glowing chariot, steeped in kindred gore; Or seek to hide thy damnÈd parricide Where Peace and Mercy dwell for evermore? The land where Truth, pure, precious, and sublime, Woos the deep silence of sequestered bowers, And warriors, matchless since the first of time, Rear their bright banners o’er unconquered towers! Where joyous youth, to Music’s mellow strain, Twines in the dance with nymphs for ever fair, While Spring eternal on the lilied plain, Waves amber radiance through the fields of air. The tuneful Nine (so sacred legends tell) First waked their heavenly lyre these scenes among; Still in your greenwood bowers they love to dwell, Still in your vales they swell the choral song! But there the tuneful, chaste, Pierian fair, The guardian nymphs of green Parnassus, now Sprung from Harmonia, while her graceful hair Waved in bright auburn o’er her polished brow! ANTISTROPHE I. Where silent vales, and glades of green array, The murmuring wreaths of cool Cephisus lave, There, as the muse hath sung, at noon of day, The Queen of Beauty bowed to taste the wave; And blest the stream, and breathed across the land The soft sweet gale that fans yon summer bowers; And there the sister Loves, a smiling band, Crowned with the fragrant wreaths of rosy flowers! “And go,” she cries, “in yonder valleys rove, With Beauty’s torch the solemn scenes illume; Wake in each eye the radiant light of Love, Breathe on each cheek young Passion’s tender bloom! “Entwine, with myrtle chains, your soft control, To sway the hearts of Freedom’s darling kind! With glowing charms enrapture Wisdom’s soul, And mould to grace ethereal Virtue’s mind.” STROPHE II. The land where Heaven’s own hallowed waters play, Where friendship binds the generous and the good, Say, shall it hail thee from thy frantic way, Unholy woman! with thy hands embrued In thine own children’s gore? Oh! ere they bleed, Let Nature’s voice thy ruthless heart appal! Pause at the bold, irrevocable deed— The mother strikes—the guiltless babes shall fall! Think what remorse thy maddening thoughts shall sting, When dying pangs their gentle bosoms tear! Where shalt thou sink, when lingering echoes ring The screams of horror in thy tortured ear? No! let thy bosom melt to Pity’s cry,— In dust we kneel—by sacred Heaven implore— O! stop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die, Nor dip thy horrid hands in infant gore! ANTISTROPHE II. Say, how shalt thou that barbarous soul assume, Undamped by horror at the daring plan? Hast thou a heart to work thy children’s doom? Or hands to finish what thy wrath began? When o’er each babe you look a last adieu, And gaze on Innocence that smiles asleep, Shall no fond feeling beat to Nature true, Charm thee to pensive thought—and bid thee weep? When the young suppliants clasp their parent dear, Heave the deep sob, and pour the artless prayer,— Ay! thou shall melt;—and many a heart-shed tear Gush o’er the hardened features of despair! Nature shall throb in every tender string,— Thy trembling heart the ruffian’s task deny;— Thy horror-smitten hands afar shall fling The blade, undrenched in blood’s eternal dye. CHORUS. Hallowed Earth! with indignation Mark, oh mark, the murderous deed! Radiant eye of wide creation, Watch the damnÈd parricide! Yet, ere Colchia’s rugged daughter Perpetrate the dire design, And consign to kindred slaughter Children of thy golden line! Shall thy hand, with murder gory, Cause immortal blood to flow! Sun of Heaven!—arrayed in glory Rise, forbid, avert the blow! In the vales of placid gladness Let no rueful maniac range; Chase afar the fiend of Madness, Wrest the dagger from Revenge! Say, hast thou, with kind protection, Reared thy smiling race in vain, Fostering Nature’s fond affection, Tender cares, and pleasing pain? Hast thou, on the troubled ocean, Braved the tempest loud and strong, Where the waves, in wild commotion, Roar Cyanean rocks among? Didst thou roam the paths of danger, Hymenean joys to prove? Spare, O sanguinary stranger, Pledges of thy sacred love! Shall not Heaven, with indignation, Watch thee o’er the barbarous deed? Shalt thou cleanse, with expiation, Monstrous, murderous parricide?
THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE.[99] The sunset sheds a horizontal smile O’er Highland frith and Hebridean isle, While, gay with gambols of its finny shoals, The glancing wave rejoices as it rolls With streamered busses, that distinctly shine All downward, pictured in the glassy brine; Whose crews, with faces brightening in the sun, Keep measure with their oars, and all in one Strike up th’ old Gaelic song.—Sweep, rowers, sweep! The fisher’s glorious spoils are in the deep. Day sinks—but twilight owes the traveller soon, To reach his bourne, a round unclouded moon, Bespeaking long undarkened hours of time; False hope—the Scots are stedfast—not their clime. A war-worn soldier from the western land, Seeks Cona’s vale by Ballihoula’s strand; The vale by eagle-haunted cliffs o’erhung, Where Fingal fought and Ossian’s harp was strung.— Our veteran’s forehead, bronzed on sultry plains, Had stood the brunt of thirty fought campaigns; He well could vouch the sad romance of wars, And count the dates of battles by his scars; For he had served where o’er and o’er again Britannia’s oriflamme had lit the plain Of glory—and victorious stamped her name On Oudenarde’s and Blenheim’s fields of fame. Nine times in battlefield his blood had streamed, Yet vivid still his veteran blue eye gleamed; Full well he bore his knapsack—unoppressed— And marched with soldier-like erected crest: Nor sign of ev’n loquacious age he wore, Save when he told his life’s adventures o’er; Some tired of these; for terms to him were dear Too tactical by far for vulgar ear; As when he talked of rampart and ravine, And trenches fenced with gabion and fascine— But when his theme possessed him all and whole, He scorned proud puzzling words and warmed the soul; Hushed groups hung on his lips with fond surprise, That sketched old scenes—like pictures to their eyes:— The wide war-plain, with banners glowing bright, And bayonets to the farthest stretch of sight; The pause, more dreadful than the peal to come From volleys blazing at the beat of drum— Till all the field of thundering lines became Two level and confronted sheets of flame. Then to the charge, when Marlbro’s hot pursuit Trode France’s gilded lilies underfoot; He came and kindled—and with martial lung Would chant the very march their trumpets sung.— The old soldier hoped, ere evening’s light should fail, To reach a home, south-east of Cona’s vale; But looking at Bennevis, capped with snow, He saw its mists come curling down below, And spread white darkness o’er the sunset glow;— Fast rolling like tempestuous Ocean’s spray, Or clouds from troops in battle’s fiery day— So dense, his quarry ’scaped the falcon’s sight, The owl alone exulted, hating light. Benighted thus our pilgrim groped his ground, Half ’twixt the river’s and the cataract’s sound. At last a sheep-dog’s bark informed his ear Some human habitation might be near; Anon sheep-bleatings rose from rock to rock,— ’Twas Luath hounding to their fold the flock. Ere long the cock’s obstreperous clarion rang, And next, a maid’s sweet voice, that spinning sang: At last amidst the greensward (gladsome sight!) A cottage stood, with straw roof golden bright. He knocked, was welcomed in; none asked his name, Nor whither he was bound, nor whence he came; But he was beckoned to the stranger’s seat, Right side the chimney fire of blazing peat. Blest Hospitality makes not her home In wallÈd parks and castellated dome; She flies the city’s needy greedy crowd, And shuns still more the mansions of the proud;— The balm of savage or of simple life, A wild flower cut by culture’s polished knife! The house, no common sordid shieling cot, Spoke inmates of a comfortable lot. The Jacobite white rose festooned their door; The windows sashed and glazed, the oaken floor, The chimney graced with antlers of the deer, The rafters hung with meat for winter cheer, And all the mansion indicated plain Its master a superior shepherd swain. Their supper came—the table soon was spread With eggs and milk and cheese and barley bread. The family were three—a father hoar, Whose age you’d guess at seventy years or more, His son looked fifty—cheerful like her lord, His comely wife presided at the board; All three had that peculiar courteous grace Which marks the meanest of the Highland race; Warm hearts that burn alike in weal and woe, As if the north wind fanned their bosoms’ glow! But wide unlike their souls: old Norman’s eye Was proudly savage ev’n in courtesy. His sinewy shoulders—each, though aged and lean, Broad as the curled Herculean head between, His scornful lip, his eyes of yellow fire, And nostrils that dilated quick with ire. With ever downward-slanting shaggy brows, Marked the old lion you would dread to rouse. Norman, in truth, had led his earlier life In raids of red revenge and feudal strife; Religious duty in revenge he saw, Proud Honour’s right and Nature’s honest law. First in the charge and foremost in pursuit, Long-breathed, deep-chested, and in speed of foot A match for stags—still fleeter when the prey Was man, in persecution’s evil day; Cheered to that chase by brutal bold Dundee, No Highland hound had lapped more blood than he. Oft had he changed the covenanter’s breath From howls of psalmody to howls of death: And though long bound to peace, it irked him still His dirk had ne’er one hated foe to kill. Yet Norman had fierce virtues, that would mock Cold-blooded tories of the modern stock, Who starve the breadless poor with fraud and cant;— He slew and saved them from the pangs of want. Nor was his solitary lawless charm Mere dauntlessness of soul and strength of arm; He had his moods of kindness now and then, And feasted ev’n well-mannered lowland men Who blew not up his Jacobitish flame, Nor prefaced with “pretender” Charles’s name. Fierce, but by sense and kindness not unwon, He loved, respected ev’n his wiser son; And brooked from him expostulations sage, When all advisers else were spurned with rage. Far happier times had moulded Ronald’s mind, By nature too of more sagacious kind. His breadth of brow, and Roman shape of chin, Squared well with the firm man that reigned within. Contemning strife as childishness, he stood With neighbours on kind terms of neighbourhood, And whilst his father’s anger nought availed, His rational remonstrance never failed. Full skilfully he managed farm and fold, Wrote, ciphered, profitably bought and sold: And, blessed with pastoral leisure, deeply took Delight to be informed, by speech or book, Of that wide world beyond his mountain home, Where oft his curious fancy loved to roam. Oft while his faithful dog ran round his flock, He read long hours when summer warmed the rock: Guests who could tell him aught were welcomed warm, Even pedlars’ news had to his mind a charm; That like an intellectual magnet-stone Drew truth from judgments simpler than his own. His soul’s proud instinct sought not to enjoy Romantic fictions, like a minstrel boy; Truth, standing on her solid square, from youth He worshipped—stern uncompromising truth. His goddess kindlier smiled on him, to find A votary of her light in land so blind; She bade majestic History unroll Broad views of public welfare to his soul, Until he looked on clannish feuds and foes With scorn, as on the wars of kites and crows; Whilst doubts assailed him, o’er and o’er again, If men were made for kings or kings for men. At last, to Norman’s horror and dismay, He flat denied the Stuarts’ right to sway. No blow-pipe ever whitened furnace fire, Quick as these words lit up his father’s ire; Who envied even old Abraham for his faith, Ordained to put his only son to death. He started up—in such a mood of soul The white bear bites his showman’s stirring pole; He danced too, and brought out, with snarl and howl, “O Dia! Dia! and Dioul! Dioul!” [100] But sense foils fury—as the blowing whale Spouts, bleeds, and dyes the waves without avail— Wears out the cable’s length that makes him fast, But, worn himself, comes up harpooned at last— E’en so, devoid of sense, succumbs at length Mere strength of zeal to intellectual strength. His son’s close logic so perplexed his pate, Th’ old hero rather shunned than sought debate; Exhausting his vocabulary’s store Of oaths and nicknames, he could say no more, But tapp’d his mull, [101] rolled mutely in his chair, Or only whistled Killiecrankie’s air. Witch legends Ronald scorned—ghost, kelpie, wraith, And all the trumpery of vulgar faith; Grave matrons ev’n were shocked to hear him slight Authenticated facts of second-sight— Yet never flinched his mockery to confound The brutal superstition reigning round. Reserved himself, still Ronald loved to scan Men’s natures—and he liked th’ old hearty man; So did the partner of his heart and life— Who pleased her Ronald, ne’er displeased his wife. His sense, ’tis true, compared with Norman’s son, Was commonplace—his tales too long outspun: Yet Allan Campbell’s sympathizing mind Had held large intercourse with human kind; Seen much, and gaily, graphically drew The men of every country, clime, and hue; Nor ever stooped, though soldier-like his strain, To ribaldry of mirth or oath profane. All went harmonious till the guest began To talk about his kindred, chief and clan, And, with his own biography engrossed, Marked not the changed demeanour of each host; Nor how old choleric Norman’s cheek became Flushed at the Campbell and Breadalbane name. Assigning, heedless of impending harm, Their stedfast silence to his story’s charm, He touched a subject perilous to touch— Saying, “’Midst this well-known vale I wondered much To lose my way. In boyhood, long ago, I roamed and loved each pathway of Glencoe; Trapped leverets, plucked wild berries on its braes, And fished along its banks long summer days. But times grew stormy—bitter feuds arose, Our clan was merciless to prostrate foes. I never palliated my chieftain’s blame, But mourned the sin, and reddened for the shame Of that foul morn (Heaven blot it from the year!) Whose shapes and shrieks still haunt my dreaming ear. What could I do? a serf—Glenlyon’s page, A soldier sworn at nineteen years of age; T’ have breathed one grieved remonstrance to our chief, The pit or gallows [102] would have cured my grief. Forced, passive as the musket in my hand, I marched—when, feigning royalty’s command, Against the clan Macdonald, Stairs’s lord Sent forth exterminating fire and sword; And troops at midnight through the vale defiled, Enjoined to slaughter woman, man, and child. My clansmen many a year had cause to dread The curse that day entailed upon their head; Glenlyon’s self confessed the avenging spell— I saw it light on him. “It so befell:— A soldier from our ranks to death was brought, By sentence deemed too dreadful for his fault; All was prepared—the coffin and the cart Stood near twelve muskets, levelled at his heart. The chief, whose breast for ruth had still some room, Obtained reprieve a day before his doom;— But of the awarded boon surmised no breath. The sufferer knelt, blindfolded, waiting death,— And met it. Though Glenlyon had desired The musketeers to watch before they fired; If from his pocket they should see he drew A handkerchief—their volley should ensue; But if he held a paper in its place, It should be hailed the sign of pardoning grace:— He, in a fatal moment’s absent fit, Drew forth the handkerchief, and not the writ; Wept o’er the corpse, and wrung his hands in woe, Crying ‘Here’s thy curse again—Glencoe! Glencoe!’” Though thus his guest spoke feelings just and clear, The cabin’s patriarch lent impatient ear; Wroth that, beneath his roof, a living man Should boast the swine-blood of the Campbell clan, He hastened to the door—called out his son To follow; walked a space, and thus begun:— “You have not, Ronald, at this day to learn The oath I took beside my father’s cairn, When you were but a babe a twelvemonth born; Sworn on my dirk—by all that’s sacred, sworn To be revenged for blood that cries to Heaven— Blood unforgiveable, and unforgiven: But never power, since then, have I possessed To plant my dagger in a Campbell’s breast. Now, here’s a self-accusing partisan, Steeped in the slaughter of Macdonald’s clan; I scorn his civil speech and sweet-lipped show Of pity—he is still our house’s foe: I’ll perjure not myself—but sacrifice The caitiff ere to-morrow’s sun arise. Stand! hear me—you’re my son, the deed is just; And if I say—it must be done—it must: A debt of honour which my clansmen crave, Their very dead demand it from the grave.” Conjuring then their ghosts, he humbly prayed Their patience till the blood-debt should be paid. But Ronald stopped him.—“Sir, Sir, do not dim Your honour by a moment’s angry whim; Your soul’s too just and generous, were you cool, To act at once the assassin and the fool. Bring me the men on whom revenge is due, And I will dirk them willingly as you! But all the real authors of that black Old deed are gone—you cannot bring them back. And this poor guest, ’tis palpable to judge, In all his life ne’er bore our clan a grudge; Dragged when a boy against his will to share That massacre, he loathed the foul affair. Think, if your hardened heart be conscience-proof, To stab a stranger underneath your roof! One who has broken bread within your gate— Reflect—before reflection comes too late,— Such ugly consequences there may be As judge and jury, rope and gallows-tree. The days of dirking snugly are gone by, Where could you hide the body privily, When search is made for’t?” “Plunge it in yon flood, That Campbells crimsoned with our kindred blood.” “Ay, but the corpse may float—” “Pshaw! dead men tell No tales—nor will it float if leaded well. I am determined!”—What could Ronald do? No house within ear-reach of his halloo, Though that would but have published household shame He temporized with wrath he could not tame, And said, “Come in, till night put off the deed, And ask a few more questions ere he bleed.” They entered; Norman with portentous air Strode to a nook behind the stranger’s chair, And, speaking nought, sat grimly in the shade, With dagger in his clutch beneath his plaid. His son’s own plaid, should Norman pounce his prey, Was coiled thick round his arm, to turn away Or blunt the dirk. He purposed leaving free The door, and giving Allan time to flee, Whilst he should wrestle with (no safe emprise) His father’s maniac strength and giant size. Meanwhile he could nowise communicate The impending peril to his anxious mate; But she, convinced no trifling matter now Disturbed the wonted calm of Ronald’s brow, Divined too well the cause of gloom that lowered, And sat with speechless terror overpowered. Her face was pale, so lately blithe and bland, The stocking knitting-wire shook in her hand. But Ronald and the guest resumed their thread Of converse, still its theme that day of dread. “Much,” said the veteran, “much as I bemoan That deed, when half a hundred years have flown, Still on one circumstance I can reflect That mitigates the dreadful retrospect. A mother with her child before us flew, I had the hideous mandate to pursue; But swift of foot, outspeeding bloodier men, I chased, o’ertook her in the winding glen, And showed her palpitating, where to save Herself and infant in a secret cave; Nor left them till I saw that they could mock Pursuit and search within that sheltering rock.” “Heavens!” Ronald cried, in accents gladly wild, “That woman was my mother—I the child! Of you unknown by name she late and air, [103]Spoke, wept, and ever blessed you in her prayer, Ev’n to her death; describing you withal A well-looked florid youth, blue-eyed and tall.” They rose, exchanged embrace: the old lion then Upstarted, metamorphosed, from his den; Saying, “Come and make thy home with us for life, Heaven-sent preserver of my child and wife. I fear thou’rt poor, that Hanoverian thing Rewards his soldiers ill.”—“God save the king!” With hand upon his heart, old Allan said, “I wear his uniform, I eat his bread, And whilst I’ve tooth to bite a cartridge, all For him and Britain’s fame I’ll stand or fall.” “Bravo!” cried Ronald. “I commend your zeal,” Quoth Norman, “and I see your heart is leal; But I have prayed my soul may never thrive If thou shouldst leave this house of ours alive. Nor shalt thou; in this home protract thy breath Of easy life, nor leave it till thy death.” The following morn arose serene as glass, And red Bennevis shone like molten brass; While sunrise opened flowers with gentle force, The guest and Ronald walked in long discourse. “Words fail me,” Allan said, “to thank aright Your father’s kindness shown me yesternight; Yet scarce I’d wish my latest days to spend A fireside fixture with the dearest friend: Besides, I’ve but a fortnight’s furlough now, To reach Macallin More, [104] beyond Lochawe. I’d fain memorialize the powers that be, To deign remembrance of my wounds and me; My life-long service never bore the brand Of sentence—lash—disgrace or reprimand. And so I’ve written, though in meagre style, A long petition to his Grace Argyle; I mean, on reaching Innerara’s shore, To leave it safe within his castle door.” “Nay,” Ronald said, “the letter that you bear Entrust it to no lying varlet’s care; But say a soldier of King George demands Access, to leave it in the Duke’s own hands. But show me, first, the epistle to your chief, ’Tis nought, unless succinctly clear and brief; Great men have no great patience when they read, And long petitions spoil the cause they plead.” That day saw Ronald from the field full soon Return; and when they all had dined at noon, He conned th’ old man’s memorial—lopped its length, And gave it style, simplicity, and strength; ’Twas finished in an hour—and in the next Transcribed by Allan in perspicuous text. At evening, he and Ronald shared once more A long and pleasant walk by Cona’s shore. “I’d press you,” quoth his host—(“I need not say How warmly) ever more with us to stay; But Charles intends, ’tis said, in these same parts To try the fealty of our Highland hearts. ’Tis my belief, that he and all his line Have—saving to be hanged—no right divine; From whose mad enterprise can only flow To thousands slaughter, and to myriads woe. Yet have they stirred my father’s spirit sore, He flints his pistols—whets his old claymore— And longs as ardently to join the fray As boy to da
nce who hears the bagpipe play. Though calm one day, the next, disdaining rule, He’d gore your red coat like an angry bull: I told him, and he owned it might be so, Your tempers never could in concert flow. But ‘Mark,’ he added, ‘Ronald! from our door Let not this guest depart forlorn and poor; Let not your souls the niggardness evince Of lowland pedlar, or of German prince; He gave you life—then feed him as you’d feed Your very father were he cast in need.’ He gave—you’ll find it by your bed to-night, A leathern purse of crowns, all sterling bright: You see I do you kindness not by stealth. My wife—no advocate of squandering wealth— Vows that it would be parricide, or worse, Should we neglect you—here’s a silken purse, Some golden pieces through the network shine, ’Tis proffered to you from her heart and mine. But come I no foolish delicacy, no! We own, but cannot cancel what we owe— This sum shall duly reach you once a year.” Poor Allan’s furrowed face, and flowing tear, Confessed sensations which he could not speak, Old Norman bade him farewell kindly meek. At morn, the smiling dame rejoiced to pack With viands full th’ old soldier’s havresack. He feared not hungry grass [105] with such a load, And Ronald saw him miles upon his road. A march of three days brought him to Lochfyne. Argyle, struck with his manly look benign, And feeling interest in the veteran’s lot, Created him a sergeant on the spot— An invalid, to serve not—but with pay (A mighty sum to him), twelve-pence a day. “But have you heard not,” said Macallin More, “Charles Stuart’s landed on Eriska’s shore, And Jacobites are arming?”—“What! indeed! Arrived! then I’m no more an invalid; My new-got halbert I must straight employ In battle.”—“As you please, old gallant boy: Your grey hairs well might plead excuse, ’tis true, But now’s the time we want such men as you.” In brief, at Innerara Allan stayed, And joined the banners of Argyle’s brigade. Meanwhile, th’ old choleric shepherd of Glencoe Spurned all advice, and girt himself to go. What was’t to him that foes would poind their fold, Their lease, their very beds beneath them sold! And firmly to his text he would have kept, Though Ronald argued and his daughter wept. But ’midst the impotence of tears and prayer, Chance snatched them from proscription and despair Old Norman’s blood was headward wont to mount Too rapid from his heart’s impetuous fount; And one day, whilst the German rats he cursed, An artery in his wise sensorium burst. The lancet saved him: but how changed, alas, From him who fought at Killiecrankie’s pass! Tame as a spaniel, timid as a child, He muttered incoherent words and smiled; He wept at kindness, rolled a vacant eye, And laughed full often when he meant to cry. Poor man! whilst in this lamentable state, Came Allan back one morning to his gate, Hale and unburdened by the woes of eild, And fresh with credit from Culloden’s field. ’Twas feared at first, the sight of him might touch The old Macdonald’s morbid mind too much; But no! though Norman knew him and disclosed, Ev’n rallying memory, he was still composed; Asked all particulars of the fatal fight, And only heaved a sigh for Charles’s flight; Then said, with but one moment’s pride of air, “It might not have been so had I been there!” Few days elapsed till he reposed beneath His grey cairn, on the wild and lonely heath; Son, friends, and kindred of his dust took leave, And Allan, with the crape bound round his sleeve. Old Allan now hung up his sergeant’s sword, And sat, a guest for life, at Ronald’s board. He waked no longer at the barrack’s drum, Yet still you’d see, when peep of day was come, Th’ erect tall red-coat, walking pastures round, Or delving with his spade the garden ground, Of cheerful temper, habits strict and sage, He reached, enjoyed a patriarchal age— Loved to the last by the Macdonalds. Near Their house, his stone was placed with many a tear; And Ronald’s self, in stoic virtue brave, Scorned not to weep at Allan Campbell’s grave. [99] I received the substance of the tradition on which this poem is founded, in the first instance, from a friend in London, who wrote to Matthew N. Macdonald, Esq., of Edinburgh. He had the kindness to send me a circumstantial account of the tradition; and that gentleman’s knowledge of the Highlands, as well as his particular acquaintance with the district of Glencoe, leave me no doubt of the incident having really happened. I have not departed from the main facts of the tradition as reported to me by Mr. Macdonald; only I have endeavoured to colour the personages of the story, and to make them as distinctive as possible.
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