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Darkens the air, and hides the sun from us.

King. It falls on those shall see the sun no more. The winged, the resistless plague is with them. How their vex'd host is reeling to and fro, Like the chafed whale with fifty lances in him! They do not see, and cannot shun the wound. The storm is viewless, as death's sable wing, Unerring as his sithe.

Per. Horses and riders are going down together. Tis almost pity to see nobles fall, And by a peasant's arrow.

Bal. I could weep them, Although they are my rebels. Chan. (aside to PERCY.) His conquerors, he means, who cast him out From his usurp'd kingdom. (Aloud.) 'Tis the worst of it,

That knights can claim small honour in the field
Which archers win, unaided by our lances.
King. The battle is not ended. [Looks towards
the field.

Not ended!-scarce begun!--What horse are these,
Rush from the thicket underneath the hill?
Per. They're Hainaulters, the followers of queen

King. (hastily.) Hainaulters!-thou art blind-
wear Hainaulters

Saint Andrew's silver cross?—or would they charge
Full on our archers, and make havoc of them?
Bruce is alive again-ho, rescue! rescue!
Who was❜t surveyed the ground?

Ribau. Most royal liege

King. A rose hath fallen from thy chaplet,' Ribaumont.

Ribau. I'll win it back, or lay my head beside it. [Exit.

King. Saint George! saint Edward! Gentlemen, to horse,

And to the rescue! Percy, lead the bill-men;
Chandos, do thou bring up the men-at-arms.
If yonder numerous host should now bear down
Bold as their van-guard, (to the abbot,) thou may'st
pray for us,


We may need good men's prayers. To the rescue, Lords, to the rescue! ha, saint George! saint Edward! [Exeunt. A part of the Field of Battle betwixt the two Main Armies; tumults behind the scenes; alarms, and cries of "Gordon! a Gordon!" "Swinton!" &c. Enter, as victorious over the English van-guard, VIPONT, REYNALD, and others. Vip. 'Tis sweet to hear these war-cries sound


Gordon and Swinton.

Rey. 'Tis passing pleasant, yet 'tis strange withal. Faith, when at first I heard the Gordon's slogan Sounded so near me, I had nigh struck down The knave who cried it.


Swin. Pitch down my pennon in yon holly bush. Gor. Mine in the thorn beside it; let them wave, As fought this morn their masters, side by side.

Swin. let the men rally, and restore their ranks Here on this vantage-ground-disorder'd chase Leads to disorder'd flight; we have done our part, And if we're succour'd now, Plantagenet Must turn his bridle southward. Reynald, spur to the regent with the basnet Of stout De Grey, the leader of their van-guard; Say, that in battle-front the Gordon slew him,

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Gor. And if I live and see my halls again, They shall have portion in the good they fight for. Each hardy follower shall have his field, His household hearth and sod-built home, as free As ever southron had. They shall be happy! And my Elizabeth shall smile to see it! have betray'd myself. Swin.


Do not believe it.

Vipont, do thou look out from yonder height,
And see what motion in the Scottish host,
And in king Edward's.
Now will I counsel thee;
The templar's ear is for no tale of love,
Being wedded to his order. But I tell thee,
The brave young knight that hath no lady-love
Is like a lamp unlighted; his brave deeds,

And its rich painting, do seem then most glorious,
When the pure ray gleams through them.
Hath thy Elizabeth no other name?

Gor. Must I then speak of her to you, sir Alan? The thought of thee, and of thy matchless strength, Hath conjured phantoms up amongst her dreams. The name of Swinton hath been spell sufficient To chase the rich blood from her lovely cheek, And would'st thou now know her's?

Swin. I would, nay, must Thy father in the paths of chivalry Should know the load-star thou dost rule thy course by.

Gor. Nay, then, her name is hark-Whispers. Swin. I know it well, that ancient northern


Gor. O, thou shalt see its fairest grace and ho


In my Elizabeth. And if music touch thee
Swin. It did, before disasters had untuned me.
Gor. O, her notes

Shall hush each sad remembrance to oblivion,
Or melt them to such gentleness of feeling,
That grief shall have its sweetness. Who, but she,
Knows the wild harpings of our native land?
Whether they lull the shepherd on his hill,
Or wake the knight to battle; rouse to merriment,
Or sooth to sadness; she can touch each mood.
Princes and statesmen, chiefs renown'd in arms,
And gray-hair'd bards, contend which shall the

And choicest homage render to th' enchantress.
Swin. You speak her talent bravely.
Though you smile,
1 do not speak it half. Her gift creative
New measures adds to every air she wakes;
Varying and gracing it with liquid sweetness,
Like the wild modulation of the lark,
Now leaving, now returning to the strain!-
To listen to her, is to seem to wander
In some enchanted labyrinth of romance,
Whence nothing but the lovely fairy's will,
Who wove the spell, can extricate the wanderer:
Methinks I hear her now!-


Bless'd privilege

Of youth! There's scarce three minutes to decide
Twixt death and life, 'twixt triumph and defeat,
Yet all his thoughts are in his lady's bower,
Listu'ing her harping!-

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While I abide, no follower of mine
Will turn his rein for life; but were I gone,
What power can stay them? and, our band dis-

What sword shall for an instant stem yon host,
And save the latest chance for victory?

Vip. The noble youth speaks truth; and were he gone, There will not twenty spears be left with us,

Gor. No, bravely as we have begun the field, o let us fight it out. The regent's eyes, More certain than a thousand messages, Shall see us stand, the barrier of his host Against yon bursting storm. If not for honour, If not for warlike rule, for shame at least, He must bear down to aid us.

Swin. Must it be so? And am I forced to yield the sad consent, Devoting thy young life? O, Gordon, Gordon! I do it as the patriarch doom'd his issue; I at my country's, he at heaven's command; But I seek vainly some atoning sacrifice, Rather than such a victim!-(Trumpets.) Hark,

they come!

That music sounds not like thy lady's lute.
Gor. Yet shall my lady's name mix with it gayly.
Mount, vassals, couch your lances, and cry, "Gor-

Gordon for Scotland and Elizabeth!"
[Exeunt. Loud alarum.


Another part of the Field of Battle, adjacent to the former scene. Alarums. Enter SWINTON, followed by HOB HAT


Swin. Stand to it yet! The man who flies to-day, May bastards warm them at his household hearth! Hob Hat. That ne'er shall be my curse. My Magdalen

Is trusty as my broadsword.
Art thou dismounted too!

Ha, thou knave,

Hob. Hat.

I know, sir Alan,

You want no homeward guide; so threw my reins
Upon my palfrey's neck, and let him loose,
Within an hour he stands before my gate:
And Magdalen will need no other token
To bid the Melrose monks say masses for me.
Swin. Thou art resolved to cheat the halter,
Hob Hat.
It is my purpose,
Having lived a thief, to die a brave man's death;
And never had 1 a more glorious chance for't.
Swin. Here lies the way to it, knave.—Make
in, make in,
And aid young Gordon!

[Exeunt. Loud and long alarums. After
which the back scene rises, and discovers
SWINTON on the ground, GORDON Sup
porting him; both much wounded.

Swin. All are cut down-the reapers have pass' d

o'er us,

And hie to distant harvest. My toil's over; There lies my sickle, [dropping his sword,] hand of mine again

Shall never, never wield it!

Gor. O valiant leader, is thy light extinguish'd! That only beacon flame which promised safety In this day's deadly wreck!

Swin. My lamp hath long been dim. But thine, young Gordon,

Just kindled, to be quench'd so suddenly,
Ere Scotland saw its splendour!-

Gor. Five thousand horse hung idly on yon hill,
Saw us o'erpowered, and no one stirr'd to aid us.
Swin. It was the regent's envy-Out!-alas!
Why blame I him?-It was our civil discord,
Our selfish vanity, our jealous hatred,
Which framed this day of dole for our poor coun-

Had thy brave father held yon leading staff,
As well his rank and valour might have claim'd it,
We had not fall'n unaided. How, O how
Is he to answer it, whose deed prevented!

Gor. Alas! Alas! the author of the death-feud,
He has his reckoning too! for had your sons
And num'rous vassals liv'd, we had lack'd no sich

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But thou, brave youth, whose nobleness of heart
Pour'd oil upon the wounds our hate inflicted;
Thou, who hast done no wrong, need'st no for-

Why should'st thou share our punishment?
Gor. All need forgiveness—[distant alarums]-
Hark! in yonder shout
Did the main battles counter!

Swin. Look on the field, brave Gordon, if thou

canst, And tell me how the day goes. But I guess, Too surely do I guess

Gor. All's lost! all's lost! Of the main Scottish host,

Some wildly fly, and some rush wildly forward; And some there are who seem to turn their spears Against their countrymen.

Swin. Rashness, and cowardice, and secret treason,

Combine to ruin us; and our hot valour,
Devoid of discipline, is madmen's strength,
More fatal unto friends than enemies!

I'm glad that these dim eyes shall see no more


Let thy hand close them, Gordon-I will think My fair-hair'd William renders me that office!


Gor. And, Swinton, I will think I do that duty To my dead father.


Vip. Fly, fly, brave youth! A handful of thy followers,

The scattered gleaning of this desperate day,
Still hover yonder to essay thy rescue.
O linger not!-I'll be your guide to them.

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King. Disarm them-harm them not; though it was they

Made havoc on the archers of our van-guard, They and that bulky champion. Where is he? Chan. Here lies the giant! Say his name, young knight!

Gor. Let it suffice, he was a man this morning. Chan. I question'd thee in sport. I do not need Thy information, youth. Who that has fought Through all these Scottish wars, but knows that crest,

The sable boar chain'd to the leafy oak,
And that huge mace still seen where war was

Grim chamberlain, who in my tent at Weardale,
King, Tis Alan Swinton!
Stood by my startled couch with torch and mace,
When the black Douglas war-cry waked my camp.

Gor. (sinking down.) If thus thou know'st him, Thou wilt respect his corpse.

King. As belted knight and crowned king, I will
Gor. And let mine

Sleep at his side, in token that our death
Ended the feud of Swinton and of Gordon.

[He rushes on the English, but is made prisoner with VIPONT.

King. It is the Gordon!-Is there aught beside Edward can do to honour bravery, Even in an enemy?


Nothing but this:

Let not base Baliol, with his touch or look,
Profane my corpse or Swinton's. I've some breath
Enough to say-Scotland-Elizabeth! [Dies.
Chan. Baliol, I would not brook such dying


To buy the crown you aim at.

King, (to VIPONT.) Vipont, thy crossed shield shows ill in warfare

Against a christian king.

Vip. That christian king is warring upon Scot


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Ballads and Lyrical Pieces.




For them the viewless forms of air obey,
Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair;

They know what spirit brews the stormful day,
And heartless oft, like moody madness, stare,
To see the phantom train their secret work prepare.

THE tradition upon which the following stanzas are founded runs thus: While two highland hunters were passing the night in a solitary bathy (a hut built for the purpose of hunting,) and making merry over their venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish, that they had pretty lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two beautiful young women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the hunters was seduced by the syren, who attached herself particularly to him, to leave the hut: the other remained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some strain consecrated to the virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress vanished. Searching in the forest, he found the bones of his unfortunate friend, who had been torn to pieces and devoured by the fiend, into whose toils he had fallen. The place was from thence called, the Glen of the Green Women.

Glenfinlas is a tract of forest ground, lying in the highlands of Perthshire, not far from Callender, in Menteith. It was formerly a royal forest, and now belongs to the earl of Moray. This country, as well as the adjacent district of Balquidder, was, in times of yore, chiefly inhabited by the Macgregors. To the west of the forest of Glenfinlas lies Loch Katrine, and its romantic avenue called the Trosachs. Benledi, Benmore, and Benvoirlich, are mountains in the same district, and at no great distance from Glenfinlas. The river Teith passes Callender and the castle of Doune, and joins the Forth near Stirling. The pass of Lenny is immediately above Callender, and is the principal access to the highlands from that town. Glenartney is a forest near Benvoirlich. The whole forms a sublime tract of Alpine scenery.

O HONE a rie'! O hone a rie'!†

The pride of Albyn's line is o'er,
And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree;
We ne'er shall see lord Ronald more!
O, sprung from great Macgillianore,

The chief that never fear'd a foe,
How matchless was thy broad claymore,

How deadly thine unerring bow!
Well can the Saxon widows tell,1

How, on the Teith's resounding shore, The boldest lowland warriors fell,

As down from Lenny's pass you bore. But o'er his hills, on festal day,

How blazed lord Ronald's beltane tree;2 While youths and maids the light strathspey So nimbly danced, with highland glee. Cheered by the strength of Ronald's shell, E'en age forgot his tresses hoar;

Coronach is the lamentation for a deceased warrior, sung by the aged of the clan.

to hone a rie' signifles—“Alas for the prince, or chief."

But now the loud lament we swell,
O, ne'er to see lord Ronald more!
From distant isles a chieftain came,

The joys of Ronald's hall to find,
And chase with him the dark brown game,
That bounds o'er Albyn's hills of wind.
'Twas Moy; whom, in Columba's isle,

The seer's prophetic spirit found,3 As, with a minstrel's fire the while,

He waked his harp's harmonious sound. Full many a spell to him was known,

Which wandering spirits shrink to hear; And many a lay of potent tone,

Was never meant for mortal ear.

For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood,

High converse with the dead they hold, And oft espy the fated shroud,

That shall the future corpse enfold.

O so it fell, that on a day,

To rouse the red deer from their den, The chiefs have ta'en their distant way, And scoured the deep Glenfinlas' glen. No vassals wait, their sports to aid,

To watch their safety, deck their board: Their simple dress, the highland plaid;

Their trusty guard, the highland sword. Three summer days, through brake and dell, Their whistling shafts successful flew; And still, when dewy evening fell,

The quarry to their hut they drew.

In gray Glenfinlas' deepest nook
The solitary cabin stood,
Fast by Moneira's sullen brook,

Which murmurs through that lonely wood
Soft fell the night, the sky was calm,
When three successive days had flown;
And summer mist in dewy balm

Steeped heathy bank and mossy stone. The moon, half hid in silvery flakes,

Afar her dubious radiance shed, Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes, And resting on Benledi's head. Now in their hut, in social guise,

Their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy;
And pleasure laughs in Roland's eyes,

As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy.
"What lack we here to crown our bliss,
While thus the pulse of joy beats high?
What, but fair woman's yielding kiss,

Her panting breath and melting eye? "To chase the deer of yonder shades,

This morning left their father's pile The fairest of our mountain maids,

The daughters of the proud Glengyle. "Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart, And dropped the tear, and heaved the sigh: But vain the lover's wily art,

Beneath the sister's watchful eye.

"But thou may'st teach that guardian fair, While far with Mary I am flown, Of other hearts to cease her care,

And find it hard to guard her own. "Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see The lovely Flora of Glengyle,

Unmindful of her charge and me, Hang on thy notes, 'twixt tear and smile. "Or, if she choose a melting tale,

All underneath the green-wood bough, Will good St. Oran's rule prevail,4

Stern huntsman of the rigid brow?" "Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death, No more on me shall rapture rise, Responsive to the panting breath,

Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes. "E'en then, when o'er the heath of wo, Were sunk my hopes of love and fame, I bade my harp's wild wailings flow,

On me the seer's sad spirit came. "The last dread curse of angry heaven,

With ghastly sights and sounds of wo, To dash each glimpse of joy, was given

The gift, the future ill to know.

"The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn,
So gayly part from Oban's bay,
My eye beheld her dashed and torn,
Far on the rocky Colonsay.

"The Fergus too, thy sister's son,

Thou saw'st, with pride, the gallant's power, As marching 'gainst the lord of Downe,

He left the skirts of huge Benmore. "Thou only saw'st their tartans* wave,

As down Benvoirlich's side they wound, Heard'st but the pibroch,† answering brave To many a target clanking round.

"I heard the groans, I marked the tears, I saw the wound his bosom bore, When on the serried Saxon spears

He poured his clan's resistless roar. "And thou, who bidst me think of bliss,

And bidst my heart awake to glee, And court, like thee, the wanton kiss,

That heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee! "I see the death-damps chill thy brow;

I hear thy warning spirit cry; The corpse-lights dance-they're gone, and nowNo more is given to gifted eye!"

"Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams, Sad prophet of the evil hour! Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams, Because to-morrow's storm may lour? "Or false, or sooth, thy words of wo,

Clangillian's chieftain ne'er shall fear; His blood shall bound at rapture's glow, Though doomed to stain the Saxon spear. «E'en now, to meet me in yon dell,

My Mary's buskins brush the dew." He spoke, nor bade the chief farewell,

But called his dogs and gay withdrew. Within an hour returned each hound;

In rushed the rousers of the deer; They howled in melancholy sound,

Then closely couched beside the seer. No Ronald yet; though midnight came,

And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams, As, bending o'er the dying flame,

He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams.

Tartans, the full highland dress, made of the che quered stuff so termed.

+ Pibroch, a piece of martial music, adapted to the highLand bagpipe.

Sudden the hounds erect their ears,
And sudden cease their moaning howl;
Closed press'd to Moy, they mark their fears
By shivering limbs, and stifled growl.
Untouched, the harp began to ring,

As softly, slowly, op'd the door,
And shook responsive every string,

As light a footstep pressed the floor.
And, by the watch-fire's glimmering light,
Close by the minstrel's side was seen
An huntress maid, in beauty bright,
All dropping wet her robes of green.

All dropping wet her garments seem,
Chilled was her cheek, her bosom bare,
As, bending o'er the dying gleam,

She wrung the moisture from her hair
With maiden blush she softly said,

"O gentle huutsman, hast thou seen, In deep Glenfinlas' moonlight glade,

A lovely maid in vest of green?
"With her a chief in highland pride;
His shoulders bear the hunter's bow,
The mountain dirk adorns his side,

Far on the wind his tartans flow?"
"And who art thou? and who are they?"
All ghastly gazing, Moy replied:
"And why, beneath the moon's pale ray,

Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side?" "Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide, Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle, Our father's towers o'erhang her side,

The castle of the bold Glengyle.

"To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer,

Our woodland course this morn we bore, And haply met, while wandering here, The son of great Macgillianore.

"O aid me, then, to seek the pair,
Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost;
Alone, I dare not venture there,
Where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost."

"Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there; Then, first, my own sad vow to keep, Here will I pour my midnight prayer, Which still must rise when mortals sleep." "O first, for pity's gentle sake,

Guide a lone wanderer on her way! For I must cross the haunted brake,

And reach my father's towers ere day." "First, three times tell each ave-bead,

And thrice a pater-noster say; Then kiss with me the holy reed:

So shall we safely wind our way." "O shame to knighthood, strange and foul! Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow, And shroud thee in the monkish cowĺ, Which best befits thy sullen vow. "Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire,


Thy heart was froze to love and joy,
When gayly rung thy raptured lyre,
To wanton Morna's melting eye.
Wild stared the minstrel's eye of flame,
And high his sable locks arose,
And quick his colour went and came,
As fear and rage alternate rose.

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