སམ་ ་སན བད-r་་ What heard he? not the clam'rous crowd, Redmond he saw and heard alone, Clasp'd him, and sobb'd, "My son, my son." XXXV. This chanc'd upon a summer morn, And childhood's wond'ring group draws near And blessing on the lovely pair. 'Twas then the Maid of Rokeby gave Time and Tide had thus their sway, OR LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. [The tradition upon which the following stanzas are founded, runs thus: While two Highland hunters were passing the night in a solitary bothy (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 re mained, 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.] "For them the viewless forms of air ohey, To see the phantom train their secret work prepare.” "O HONE a rie!' O hone a rie'!* The pride of Albin's line is o'er, And fall'n 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! *O hone a rie' signifies-" Alas for the prince, or chieí.” Well can the Saxon widows tell, How, on the Teith's resounding shore, But o'er his hills, on festal day, How blaz'd Lord Ronald's Beltane tree, "Twas Moy; whom, in Columba's isle, He wak'd his harp's harmonious sound, Full many a spell to him was known, 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 scour'd 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 And still, when dewy evening fell, In grey Glenfinlas' deepest nook |