 
With heather pillowing his head, The dying outlaw lay, And plaided clansmen round his bed Stood watching in dismay. Wild throes of dissolution shook His worn and wasted frame, But native lordliness of look Distemper could not tame. The walls of his rude dwelling-place Were hung with weapons bright— With branching antlers of the chase, And trophies won in fight. His tall, gaunt hound, of proven worth, Acute of eye and ear, Slept idly on the lighted hearth, Forgetful of the deer. Cold dew—that herald which precedes The winding-sheet, and wail Of mourning ones—in clammy beads, Stood on his forehead pale. Faint grew the swell of his proud breast, And dim his falcon-eye, But manfully his lip suppressed The groan of agony. While ran his blood with feebler flow, Strode in a clansman stout, And told the chief, in accents low, 'A stranger waits without!' Then syllabled the name—a word Unwelcome to his ears, Which darkly in his bosom stirred The hoarded hate of years. 'No member of a hostile clan, While heart or pulse can beat, Shall see me,' said the dying man, 'In posture of defeat. Array me in the spoils I took From enemies laid low; Clad thus, Macgregor cannot brook The presence of a foe.' 'Bring forth the bonnet that I wore When blood was on the heather, Though in the mountain wind no more Will nod its eagle feather: Gird on my sword, of temper tried, Old beam of hope in danger, To deeds of hardihood allied, And then admit the stranger!' Attendants clad the dying man In garb that well became The leader of a martial clan, A warrior of fame; Admitted then his guest, who met Reception stern and cold; The Highland Chief could not forget The bloody feuds of old. The stranger soon withdrew. 'Now call The harper in, to cheer My passing spirit with the strain Most welcome to my ear!' The hoary minstrel brought his lyre, To notes of battle strung, And fingering its chords of fire, In stormy concert, sung: I. 'The plaid round his shoulders our leader hath thrown, And a gathering blast on his bugle hath blown; He calls on the dauntless and ready of hand To gather around him with bonnet and brand; Like hounds scenting out the retreat of the stag, We quit, for the Lowlands, our home on the crag. II. 'The dirk of our fathers in gore we must dye! Will the falcon forbear, when the quarry is nigh? The Saxon dreams not, in his flowery vale, That our pennon is flung to the welcoming gale; That we come from the mountains to scourge and destroy, And the chieftain we follow is dreaded Rob Roy. III. 'On the head of Macgregor a price hath been set, With the blood of our clan Lowland sabres are wet; Elated by triumph, red wine freely flows, And loud is the song in the camp of our foes; But to shrieking will change their demoniac joy, When sound our glad pipers the charge of Rob Roy!' Ere died the battle-song away, Rose up the voice of wail, While motionless the chieftain lay, With face like marble pale. No kindly word from him repaid The harper for his strain; The hushing hand of Death was laid On heart, and pulse, and brain! Avon, May,1837. |
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