The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell ... Now first collected and edited, with memoir, by Robert Howie Smith |
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| CLAN-ALPIN'S VOW:
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 | The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell |  |
69
CLAN-ALPIN'S VOW:
A FRAGMENT.
71
1. PART FIRST.
The parting look, the parting tear,
The loud acclaim that stunned the ear,
The thundering cannon's broken roar,
Rebellowed from the Swedish shore,
Were past; and Cronenberg was mute,
That erst poured forth the harsh salute;
And not a sound upon the breeze
Was wafted to the German Seas.
Tower after tower forsook the eye,
And melting, mingled with the sky;
And twilight threw her veil of grey
On landmark, headland, and on bay;
The mountains faded from the sight,
The dubious landscape sank in night;
When Anne to Denmark bade adieu,
While sorrow dimmed her eyes of blue;
Willing to go, yet loth to part,
Hope soothed, while memory wrung her heart.
The loud acclaim that stunned the ear,
The thundering cannon's broken roar,
Rebellowed from the Swedish shore,
Were past; and Cronenberg was mute,
That erst poured forth the harsh salute;
And not a sound upon the breeze
Was wafted to the German Seas.
Tower after tower forsook the eye,
And melting, mingled with the sky;
And twilight threw her veil of grey
On landmark, headland, and on bay;
The mountains faded from the sight,
The dubious landscape sank in night;
When Anne to Denmark bade adieu,
While sorrow dimmed her eyes of blue;
72
Hope soothed, while memory wrung her heart.
A shallop light the tidings bore,
With straining sail, to Scotland's shore:
The joyful news spread far and wide,
From Tweed to Tay, from Forth to Clyde;
And barons bold, and ladies gay,
Bethought them of the rich array,
The chain of gold, the jewel rare,
The orient pearl to braid the hair,
And costly rubies fair to see,
In chettouns of rich filligree.
From every vassal of the crown,
From landward and from borough town,
The largess came to grace, withal,
King James's nuptial festival.
With straining sail, to Scotland's shore:
The joyful news spread far and wide,
From Tweed to Tay, from Forth to Clyde;
And barons bold, and ladies gay,
Bethought them of the rich array,
The chain of gold, the jewel rare,
The orient pearl to braid the hair,
And costly rubies fair to see,
In chettouns of rich filligree.
From every vassal of the crown,
From landward and from borough town,
The largess came to grace, withal,
King James's nuptial festival.
And said Lord Drummond of Strathern,—
“Spite of Clan-Alpin, stark and stern,
Glenartney's bounds may well afford
An offering for Glenartney's Lord;
And noble Danes shall feast their fill,
On ven'son from the Highland hill.”—
Then mildly smiled around on all,
The brave and gay, that graced his hall;
And glancing kind from side to side—
“A health,” he cried, “to James's bride.”—
The heart of Margaret, at the word,
Sank like a stricken, fluttering bird:
She, too, a bride, and idle eye
Might mark her blush, and timorous sigh,
For Maurice, her betroth'd, was nigh.—
“Maurice,” Lord Drummond said, “full well
Thou know'st the forest, bank, and dell,
And seldom visit them in vain;
For not a huntsman of my train
But owns that thou, in speed and skill,
Surpass the best on Highland hill.”
Young Maurice heard with eyes half-raised;
He vowed his skill was over-praised,
But what he had of head or hand,
The forester might well command.—
“To-morrow, then,” Lord Drummond cried,
“Seek with the sun Glenartney's side.
The King shall know whose ready care,
Welcomes the Queen, and mends the fare.”
“Even now,” said Maurice, “I'll begone,
For, ere the tedious journey's done,
The sun may ride above the hill,
And all my high-emblazoned skill,
From hazle-brake, or bank of fern,
May fail to bring a deer to Ern.”—
He bowed, and left the banquet-hall;
He saw not Margaret lifeless fall,
Nor saw Lord Drummond, in alarm,
Pillow her head upon his arm.—
With hurried step he onward press'd,
Roused the dull grooms from early rest,
And led the shaggy gaze-hounds forth.
And better never scoured the north.
Not Fingal, for the mountain chase,
Could boast a stouter, fleeter race.
And long he urged, but urged in vain,
To needful speed the hunter train,
Who relished not the midnight cheer
Of mossy couch, Clan-Alpin near.
But every plea of slow delay
Exhausted, forth they took their way,
And murmured at the half-filled moon,
Yet thanked their fortune for that boon;
For as they moved, in showers around,
The crisped leaves pattered on the ground;
And, while they thought on mountain thieves,
'Twas well to know these were but leaves.
“Spite of Clan-Alpin, stark and stern,
Glenartney's bounds may well afford
An offering for Glenartney's Lord;
And noble Danes shall feast their fill,
On ven'son from the Highland hill.”—
Then mildly smiled around on all,
The brave and gay, that graced his hall;
And glancing kind from side to side—
“A health,” he cried, “to James's bride.”—
73
Sank like a stricken, fluttering bird:
She, too, a bride, and idle eye
Might mark her blush, and timorous sigh,
For Maurice, her betroth'd, was nigh.—
“Maurice,” Lord Drummond said, “full well
Thou know'st the forest, bank, and dell,
And seldom visit them in vain;
For not a huntsman of my train
But owns that thou, in speed and skill,
Surpass the best on Highland hill.”
Young Maurice heard with eyes half-raised;
He vowed his skill was over-praised,
But what he had of head or hand,
The forester might well command.—
“To-morrow, then,” Lord Drummond cried,
“Seek with the sun Glenartney's side.
The King shall know whose ready care,
Welcomes the Queen, and mends the fare.”
“Even now,” said Maurice, “I'll begone,
For, ere the tedious journey's done,
The sun may ride above the hill,
And all my high-emblazoned skill,
From hazle-brake, or bank of fern,
May fail to bring a deer to Ern.”—
He bowed, and left the banquet-hall;
He saw not Margaret lifeless fall,
Nor saw Lord Drummond, in alarm,
74
With hurried step he onward press'd,
Roused the dull grooms from early rest,
And led the shaggy gaze-hounds forth.
And better never scoured the north.
Not Fingal, for the mountain chase,
Could boast a stouter, fleeter race.
And long he urged, but urged in vain,
To needful speed the hunter train,
Who relished not the midnight cheer
Of mossy couch, Clan-Alpin near.
But every plea of slow delay
Exhausted, forth they took their way,
And murmured at the half-filled moon,
Yet thanked their fortune for that boon;
For as they moved, in showers around,
The crisped leaves pattered on the ground;
And, while they thought on mountain thieves,
'Twas well to know these were but leaves.
Now, on the broad and winding path,
Which led their footsteps through the Strath,
While love within his bosom burned,
Back on the castle Maurice turned;
And as his eager glance he sent
Upon the western battlement,
A form etherial struck his eye,
Like seraph in the azure sky,
The well-known signal met his view,
And Margaret waved a sad adieu.
Adieu, he said, and breathed a sigh;
Unwonted tears bedimmed his eye,
And o'er his face and o'er his frame
He felt the artless glow of shame;
And blessed the darkness that concealed
The tribute that his heart must yield.
And while he lingered for a space,
Deep wrapt, and willing to retrace
Scenes of delight for ever gone,
The hunter train moved slowly on,
And loitered on their cheerless way.
The rugged road through thickets lay;
And much of courtesy was shewn,
Who first should tread the path unknown,
Till Maurice, chafing, forward ran,
Chid the poltroons, and led the van.
Which led their footsteps through the Strath,
While love within his bosom burned,
Back on the castle Maurice turned;
And as his eager glance he sent
Upon the western battlement,
A form etherial struck his eye,
Like seraph in the azure sky,
75
And Margaret waved a sad adieu.
Adieu, he said, and breathed a sigh;
Unwonted tears bedimmed his eye,
And o'er his face and o'er his frame
He felt the artless glow of shame;
And blessed the darkness that concealed
The tribute that his heart must yield.
And while he lingered for a space,
Deep wrapt, and willing to retrace
Scenes of delight for ever gone,
The hunter train moved slowly on,
And loitered on their cheerless way.
The rugged road through thickets lay;
And much of courtesy was shewn,
Who first should tread the path unknown,
Till Maurice, chafing, forward ran,
Chid the poltroons, and led the van.
And now they left Strathern behind,
Devious the track, and hard to find.
And, rising from the fertile vale,
The moon's pale beam began to fail.
Slowly the silver orb of night,
Shrouded in clouds, withdrew her light,
And not the length of horseman's lance,
The troop, bewildered, could advance.
Stretched on the ground, in groups they lay,
Waiting the early dawn of day.
Soon as the first faint gleam was given,
Reflected from the arch of heaven,
Young Maurice urged them to pursue
Their toil, and brush away the dew
That fell on fern and seedling tree,
On heather bush and bilberry.
And now they heard on every side
The cockering heath-fowl woo his bride;
And rival champions on the wing,
From heathy knoll and mossy spring;
And when the skylark welcomed day,
Glenartney's wilds before them lay.
Devious the track, and hard to find.
And, rising from the fertile vale,
The moon's pale beam began to fail.
Slowly the silver orb of night,
Shrouded in clouds, withdrew her light,
And not the length of horseman's lance,
The troop, bewildered, could advance.
Stretched on the ground, in groups they lay,
76
Soon as the first faint gleam was given,
Reflected from the arch of heaven,
Young Maurice urged them to pursue
Their toil, and brush away the dew
That fell on fern and seedling tree,
On heather bush and bilberry.
And now they heard on every side
The cockering heath-fowl woo his bride;
And rival champions on the wing,
From heathy knoll and mossy spring;
And when the skylark welcomed day,
Glenartney's wilds before them lay.
Maurice to each his task assigned,
But bade them lurk awhile behind;
For now he eager longed to know
The success of his English bow,
And, crouching low, his path he took
Among the pebbles of the brook,
And shunned the stones with cautious tread,
Where slimy, slippery weeds were spread,
Lest stumbling step, or dashing spray
Might scare the startled herd away.
When sudden bursting from the wood,
Fierce Eachine Deargh before him stood.
His frizzled locks, of glaring red,
Around his rigid features spread—
Features, by fervid passion sway'd,
Where never soft emotion played.
“Ha! gentle Maurice, art thou here
To chase Glenartney's bounding deer?
I know thee well—thy sunshine lord
Loves such as thee around his board.
Back, stripling, to his sheltering tower,
Nor here provoke Clan-Alpin's power!”
“Vain boaster!” Maurice quick replied,
With knitting front, and glow of pride—
“Thou rudest of a savage tribe!
I spurn thy threat and scorn thy gibe!”
“Hence!” his fierce foe rejoined; “depart,
Or my good blade must reach thy heart!”
“Thy blade and thee I do defy,”
Cried Maurice; “And if one must die,
Approach me but a cloth-yard's space,
Crave not of me, but heaven, grace.”
And to the head the shaft he drew.
Eachine advanced—the arrow flew,
And on the target's edge it rung,
Across his guarded bosom flung,
And, glancing from the studded hide,
Grazed lightly on his brawny side.
Onward, in rage, he furious pressed,
Plung'd deep his sword in Maurice' breast;
Then high he raised the reeking blade;
Maurice a faint halloo essayed;
With gathered force the weapon sunk—
The muttering head flew from the trunk.
But bade them lurk awhile behind;
For now he eager longed to know
The success of his English bow,
And, crouching low, his path he took
Among the pebbles of the brook,
And shunned the stones with cautious tread,
Where slimy, slippery weeds were spread,
Lest stumbling step, or dashing spray
Might scare the startled herd away.
When sudden bursting from the wood,
Fierce Eachine Deargh before him stood.
His frizzled locks, of glaring red,
Around his rigid features spread—
77
Where never soft emotion played.
“Ha! gentle Maurice, art thou here
To chase Glenartney's bounding deer?
I know thee well—thy sunshine lord
Loves such as thee around his board.
Back, stripling, to his sheltering tower,
Nor here provoke Clan-Alpin's power!”
“Vain boaster!” Maurice quick replied,
With knitting front, and glow of pride—
“Thou rudest of a savage tribe!
I spurn thy threat and scorn thy gibe!”
“Hence!” his fierce foe rejoined; “depart,
Or my good blade must reach thy heart!”
“Thy blade and thee I do defy,”
Cried Maurice; “And if one must die,
Approach me but a cloth-yard's space,
Crave not of me, but heaven, grace.”
And to the head the shaft he drew.
Eachine advanced—the arrow flew,
And on the target's edge it rung,
Across his guarded bosom flung,
And, glancing from the studded hide,
Grazed lightly on his brawny side.
Onward, in rage, he furious pressed,
Plung'd deep his sword in Maurice' breast;
Then high he raised the reeking blade;
Maurice a faint halloo essayed;
78
The muttering head flew from the trunk.
And now Lord Drummond's men alarmed,
With bow, and spear, and hackbut armed,
Searching each bush and craggy nook,
Followed the channel of the brook;
Red Eachine heard the thickening tread,
And stooping, seized the lifeless head,
And firm he grasped a gory lock.
Then, bounding light from rock to rock,
O'er tangled bush, and broken root,
He bade defiance to pursuit.
The hunter train his form descried,
Scaling aloft the mountain side;
From matchlock, and from twanging yew,
The bullets whizzed, the arrows flew;
But onward still he bore away,
With rapid step, the bloody prey;
And over hill, and bog, and moor,
Skilful he held the pathway sure,
And left behind the dark ravine,
The dashing stream, the meadow green,
The willow bank, and copse-wood bower,
And reached dark Invercharnock Tower.
With bow, and spear, and hackbut armed,
Searching each bush and craggy nook,
Followed the channel of the brook;
Red Eachine heard the thickening tread,
And stooping, seized the lifeless head,
And firm he grasped a gory lock.
Then, bounding light from rock to rock,
O'er tangled bush, and broken root,
He bade defiance to pursuit.
The hunter train his form descried,
Scaling aloft the mountain side;
From matchlock, and from twanging yew,
The bullets whizzed, the arrows flew;
But onward still he bore away,
With rapid step, the bloody prey;
And over hill, and bog, and moor,
Skilful he held the pathway sure,
And left behind the dark ravine,
The dashing stream, the meadow green,
The willow bank, and copse-wood bower,
And reached dark Invercharnock Tower.
Then to the gate. Prepared for foes,
The huge portcullis slowly rose:
Then to his chieftain in the court—
His speech was quick, his story short—
He stretched the lifeless head to view;
Bowed to his chief with homage due.
There stepped not other, foe or friend,
To whom that haughty neck might bend.
And as he sought his tale to close,
His visage beamed, his utterance rose:—
“For this my fierce and sudden blow
Shall evil on Clan-Alpin flow,
And new pretext at Court be found
To summon hostile bands around?
The deed is mine—I brave their hate;
I scorn the tortures that await.
For thee, my chief, I raised my steel,
And let my life my duty seal.”
The huge portcullis slowly rose:
Then to his chieftain in the court—
His speech was quick, his story short—
79
Bowed to his chief with homage due.
There stepped not other, foe or friend,
To whom that haughty neck might bend.
And as he sought his tale to close,
His visage beamed, his utterance rose:—
“For this my fierce and sudden blow
Shall evil on Clan-Alpin flow,
And new pretext at Court be found
To summon hostile bands around?
The deed is mine—I brave their hate;
I scorn the tortures that await.
For thee, my chief, I raised my steel,
And let my life my duty seal.”
Fire flashed from Malcolm's frenzied eye:—
“A dog's death shall a warrior die!
Sooner may vital vigour part
From this my throbbing, bursting heart,
If Alpin's son his soul must yield,
By heaven, it shall be in the field!
And well fought shall that battle be
That robs Clan-Alpin's chief of thee.
Rouse, rouse the clan—call forth our men
From every deep and rocky glen!
Let pibrochs sound on hill and lee,
The hurried, thrilling Chanalie.
Let those, who faith and honour prize,
Step forth bedecked in warlike guise,
And every coward hide his face.
Balquhidder Kirk the meeting-place.
Gaze not! the place seems strange and new,
But we have solemn deeds to do.”
“A dog's death shall a warrior die!
Sooner may vital vigour part
From this my throbbing, bursting heart,
If Alpin's son his soul must yield,
By heaven, it shall be in the field!
And well fought shall that battle be
That robs Clan-Alpin's chief of thee.
Rouse, rouse the clan—call forth our men
From every deep and rocky glen!
Let pibrochs sound on hill and lee,
The hurried, thrilling Chanalie.
80
Step forth bedecked in warlike guise,
And every coward hide his face.
Balquhidder Kirk the meeting-place.
Gaze not! the place seems strange and new,
But we have solemn deeds to do.”
81
2. PART SECOND.
The early morn, in sober gray,
Had ushered in the holy day;
The busy buz of man was still,
In crowded glen and on the hill;
The face of Nature, sunk in peace,
Bade violence and rapine cease.
The birds of heaven, as if aware,
Man's dreaded presence seemed to dare;
On glade and mead, on herb and tree,
All was attuned to harmony.
But, ere the eastern sun rose high,
Dark lowered the cloud-encumbered sky,
And scarce a beam could pierce the gloom,
To gild awhile the heather-bloom;
Save when a transient flitting light
Passed swiftly o'er the mountain height,
And thence descending to the hill,
Left the huge mountain darker still.
And now the straining eye could mark
Black specks emerging from the dark,
On the long level of the heath,
Or on the hill or glen beneath.
From every airth, on every hand,
With quickening step band pressed on band,
And as they thickened and drew near,
Faint pibrochs struck the listening ear.
Louder and louder swelled the sound,
The Chanalie was heard around,
And gave to rocky depths afar
The warning of awakened war.
A signal given, with heavy tread
O'er the green hillocks of the dead
They moved; from north, and east, and west,
Mingled through crowded porch they pressed;
All armed for battle, full of zeal,
In haberschons and caps of steel,
And hektons tough; the spear they bore,
The target and the huge claymore;
Darlochs there were, for distant fray,
For battlement or turret gray;
And, for the close and fierce debate,
The dirk, the harbinger of fate.
And on they moved in rapid tide,
And ranged themselves on either side;
And ever as the first gave place,
The crowd flowed on and filled the space.
And such a rude, unhallowed din
Was never heard those walls within;
And through the lozenged windows, light
Fell not before on such a sight.
And not a holy priest was there,
To swell the praise and guide the prayer.
But Malcolm, in his harness cased,
Close by the altar step was placed,
And o'er that altar's sacred side
Clan-Alpin's banner hung in pride.
The chief, with air of high command,
Rose on his seat and waved his hand;
'Twas silence all, and not a breath,
As in the lonely vault of death.
Had ushered in the holy day;
The busy buz of man was still,
In crowded glen and on the hill;
The face of Nature, sunk in peace,
Bade violence and rapine cease.
The birds of heaven, as if aware,
Man's dreaded presence seemed to dare;
On glade and mead, on herb and tree,
All was attuned to harmony.
But, ere the eastern sun rose high,
Dark lowered the cloud-encumbered sky,
And scarce a beam could pierce the gloom,
To gild awhile the heather-bloom;
Save when a transient flitting light
Passed swiftly o'er the mountain height,
And thence descending to the hill,
Left the huge mountain darker still.
82
Black specks emerging from the dark,
On the long level of the heath,
Or on the hill or glen beneath.
From every airth, on every hand,
With quickening step band pressed on band,
And as they thickened and drew near,
Faint pibrochs struck the listening ear.
Louder and louder swelled the sound,
The Chanalie was heard around,
And gave to rocky depths afar
The warning of awakened war.
A signal given, with heavy tread
O'er the green hillocks of the dead
They moved; from north, and east, and west,
Mingled through crowded porch they pressed;
All armed for battle, full of zeal,
In haberschons and caps of steel,
And hektons tough; the spear they bore,
The target and the huge claymore;
Darlochs there were, for distant fray,
For battlement or turret gray;
And, for the close and fierce debate,
The dirk, the harbinger of fate.
And on they moved in rapid tide,
And ranged themselves on either side;
And ever as the first gave place,
The crowd flowed on and filled the space.
83
Was never heard those walls within;
And through the lozenged windows, light
Fell not before on such a sight.
And not a holy priest was there,
To swell the praise and guide the prayer.
But Malcolm, in his harness cased,
Close by the altar step was placed,
And o'er that altar's sacred side
Clan-Alpin's banner hung in pride.
The chief, with air of high command,
Rose on his seat and waved his hand;
'Twas silence all, and not a breath,
As in the lonely vault of death.
“Shall we forget from whence we sprung,
The songs of war our bards have sung,
The tide of glory flowing on,
From age to age, from sire to son?
Or yield to this despotic sway
That slowly steals our name away?
The songs of war our bards have sung,
The tide of glory flowing on,
From age to age, from sire to son?
Or yield to this despotic sway
That slowly steals our name away?
“Let courtiers bend their supple backs,
For parchment-rights and dangling wax,
By royal mandate call them lords,—
We bear our charters in our swords;
Daring we are, 'tis true, and rough,
Our blades are sharp, our spears are tough,
And faithless foemen fear or feel
The vengeance of Clan-Alpin's steel.
The puny robbers tread, in vain,
Our hills; we drive them back again;
And if to flout them to their beards,
We sweep their barn-yards, flocks, and herds,
Some dastard knave, some babe of fear,
Rounds it in easy James's ear,
Insidiously, in language mild,
And paints us lawless, cruel, wild,
Oppressors of the weak and good,
Untameable, and men of blood.
Forth hies a dizen'd herald straight,
To market-cross and castle-gate,
And thunders fire, and sword, and shame,
On all who boast Clan-Alpin's name.
Treason is bandied, and anon,
The curs are packed and hunted on
To bay the lion in his lair,—
By royal grant our lands they share.
Thus, by foul plan and licensed theft,
Glenlyon gone, Glenurchy reft!
And shall we tamely, day by day,
Yield hill, and heath, and glen away?
For parchment-rights and dangling wax,
By royal mandate call them lords,—
We bear our charters in our swords;
Daring we are, 'tis true, and rough,
Our blades are sharp, our spears are tough,
84
The vengeance of Clan-Alpin's steel.
The puny robbers tread, in vain,
Our hills; we drive them back again;
And if to flout them to their beards,
We sweep their barn-yards, flocks, and herds,
Some dastard knave, some babe of fear,
Rounds it in easy James's ear,
Insidiously, in language mild,
And paints us lawless, cruel, wild,
Oppressors of the weak and good,
Untameable, and men of blood.
Forth hies a dizen'd herald straight,
To market-cross and castle-gate,
And thunders fire, and sword, and shame,
On all who boast Clan-Alpin's name.
Treason is bandied, and anon,
The curs are packed and hunted on
To bay the lion in his lair,—
By royal grant our lands they share.
Thus, by foul plan and licensed theft,
Glenlyon gone, Glenurchy reft!
And shall we tamely, day by day,
Yield hill, and heath, and glen away?
“Owes James to simpering parasites,
Imperial crown and princely rights;
Or to his clerks, in cowl and hood,
That now he sits in Halyrude?
Curst be the pedantry of school!
Would thus our Scottish monarch rule
O'er dastard slaves, debased and low,
Whose blood, in sluggish lingering flow,
May stagnate ere they strike a blow?—
Shall we, to soothe a silk-clad chief,
Forswear the bow and feathered sheaf;
The soul of fire, the arm of power,
Proud Victory's exulting hour;
The brawny limb, that scales the steep,
Or reckless plunges in the deep,
When melting snows come rolling fast,
And shivering Saxons gaze aghast;
Claymore and target cast away,
In servile task-work wear the day;
Barter the chase and mountain joy,
For mean and womanish employ?”
Imperial crown and princely rights;
Or to his clerks, in cowl and hood,
85
Curst be the pedantry of school!
Would thus our Scottish monarch rule
O'er dastard slaves, debased and low,
Whose blood, in sluggish lingering flow,
May stagnate ere they strike a blow?—
Shall we, to soothe a silk-clad chief,
Forswear the bow and feathered sheaf;
The soul of fire, the arm of power,
Proud Victory's exulting hour;
The brawny limb, that scales the steep,
Or reckless plunges in the deep,
When melting snows come rolling fast,
And shivering Saxons gaze aghast;
Claymore and target cast away,
In servile task-work wear the day;
Barter the chase and mountain joy,
For mean and womanish employ?”
Around an angry murmur ran,
And kindling wrath, from man to man,
Flew like the flame that wastes the moor;
Again the chief, “What fiends allure
Our monarch's unsuspecting heart,
To play with us the tyrant's part,
While villains wither in his ears
The service of a thousand years.—
And kindling wrath, from man to man,
Flew like the flame that wastes the moor;
Again the chief, “What fiends allure
Our monarch's unsuspecting heart,
To play with us the tyrant's part,
While villains wither in his ears
The service of a thousand years.—
“Our bards have sung, and well we know
That, full five hundred years ago,
King Malcolm, hunting near Mamlorn,
By ardour of the chase, was borne
Aloof from all his spearmen bold:
A bristled savage, from his hold
Roused by the noise, with sudden spring,
Launched side-long at our Scottish King,
And, while he struggled with the boar,
Clan-Alpin's chief, Sir Callum More,
Rushed forward to his prince's side.
Een do, spair nocht, King Malcolm cried.
Callum uptore a rooted oak,
And, warding off the deadly stroke,
The moment watched, with ready art,
And plunged the dagger in his heart;
Then to the king, as offering meet,
Flung the huge carcase at his feet.
Mark, then, upon that altar spread,
The banner of the mighty dead:
On argent-field, the sword in bend,
The crown that it could well defend;
Th' uprooted oak, too, in its place,
The proud pretence of Malcolm's race;
The emblem of its ruin, too,
Unless our hearts are firm and true;
Together stand, together fall—
The fate of one, the fate of all.
“An upstart, of Hungarian breed,
Covets our birthright, and the meed
Of gallant deeds and fair renown,
By many a hero handed down:
And now, to swell his pampered pride,
Must drive, forsooth, Glenartney's side.
But let that mighty baron learn,
This doughty Steward of Strathern,
His dream may be of startled deer;
Awake he'll find Clan-Alpin here.
86
King Malcolm, hunting near Mamlorn,
By ardour of the chase, was borne
Aloof from all his spearmen bold:
A bristled savage, from his hold
Roused by the noise, with sudden spring,
Launched side-long at our Scottish King,
And, while he struggled with the boar,
Clan-Alpin's chief, Sir Callum More,
Rushed forward to his prince's side.
Een do, spair nocht, King Malcolm cried.
Callum uptore a rooted oak,
And, warding off the deadly stroke,
The moment watched, with ready art,
And plunged the dagger in his heart;
Then to the king, as offering meet,
Flung the huge carcase at his feet.
Mark, then, upon that altar spread,
The banner of the mighty dead:
On argent-field, the sword in bend,
The crown that it could well defend;
Th' uprooted oak, too, in its place,
The proud pretence of Malcolm's race;
The emblem of its ruin, too,
Unless our hearts are firm and true;
Together stand, together fall—
The fate of one, the fate of all.
87
Covets our birthright, and the meed
Of gallant deeds and fair renown,
By many a hero handed down:
And now, to swell his pampered pride,
Must drive, forsooth, Glenartney's side.
But let that mighty baron learn,
This doughty Steward of Strathern,
His dream may be of startled deer;
Awake he'll find Clan-Alpin here.
“Long ere yester sun's first gleam
Had darted on the mountain stream,
Or the hoarse raven, for the hills,
Had shook his plumes and trimmed his quills,
Lord Drummond's men were on their way;
Brave Eachine Deargh in ambush lay—
Brave Eachine Deargh, of all the clan,
Steps there a braver, better man?
Beneath the rock where Eachine slept,
Lord Drummond's minion, Maurice, crept,
To shun the herd and gain the wind—
His villains tarried far behind.
Eachine aroused, in parley short,
With angry word forbade the sport;
The angry word came back again;
The fight was short and Maurice slain.
Eachine did well!—a foeman bled!
And shall upon his gallant head
The fury of the courtiers light—
Who vindicates Clan-Alpin's right?”
The chief arose; with rapid stride
He gained the sacred altar's side,
Where many a penitent had knelt,
And keen remorse had deeply felt,
And pardon asked of pitying heaven,
And meekly hoped that pardon given.
In Malcolm's soul rage uncontrolled
Held its wild sway; his eyeballs rolled;
He cast a furious glance around,
Struck his claymore upon the ground,
And pausing, on the banner gazed;
Then cried in scorn, with finger raised—
“This was the boon of Scotland's king!”
And, with a quick and angry fling,
Tossing the pageant screen away—
The dead man's head before him lay.
Unmoved he scanned the visage o'er,
The clotted locks were dark with gore,
The features with convulsion grim,
The eyes contorted, sunk, and dim.
But unappalled, in angry mood,
With lowering brow, unmoved he stood.
Upon the head his bared right hand
He laid, the other grasped his brand;
Then kneeling, cried—“To heaven I swear
This deed of death I own and share;
As truly, fully mine, as though
This my right hand had dealt the blow.
Come then, our foemen—one, come all;
If to revenge this caitiff's fall,
One blade is bared—one bow is drawn,
Mine everlasting peace I pawn,
To claim from them, or claim from him,
In retribution, limb for limb.
In sudden fray or open strife,
This steel shall render life for life.”
Had darted on the mountain stream,
Or the hoarse raven, for the hills,
Had shook his plumes and trimmed his quills,
Lord Drummond's men were on their way;
Brave Eachine Deargh in ambush lay—
Brave Eachine Deargh, of all the clan,
Steps there a braver, better man?
Beneath the rock where Eachine slept,
Lord Drummond's minion, Maurice, crept,
To shun the herd and gain the wind—
His villains tarried far behind.
Eachine aroused, in parley short,
With angry word forbade the sport;
The angry word came back again;
The fight was short and Maurice slain.
Eachine did well!—a foeman bled!
88
The fury of the courtiers light—
Who vindicates Clan-Alpin's right?”
The chief arose; with rapid stride
He gained the sacred altar's side,
Where many a penitent had knelt,
And keen remorse had deeply felt,
And pardon asked of pitying heaven,
And meekly hoped that pardon given.
In Malcolm's soul rage uncontrolled
Held its wild sway; his eyeballs rolled;
He cast a furious glance around,
Struck his claymore upon the ground,
And pausing, on the banner gazed;
Then cried in scorn, with finger raised—
“This was the boon of Scotland's king!”
And, with a quick and angry fling,
Tossing the pageant screen away—
The dead man's head before him lay.
Unmoved he scanned the visage o'er,
The clotted locks were dark with gore,
The features with convulsion grim,
The eyes contorted, sunk, and dim.
But unappalled, in angry mood,
With lowering brow, unmoved he stood.
Upon the head his bared right hand
He laid, the other grasped his brand;
Then kneeling, cried—“To heaven I swear
89
As truly, fully mine, as though
This my right hand had dealt the blow.
Come then, our foemen—one, come all;
If to revenge this caitiff's fall,
One blade is bared—one bow is drawn,
Mine everlasting peace I pawn,
To claim from them, or claim from him,
In retribution, limb for limb.
In sudden fray or open strife,
This steel shall render life for life.”
He ceased; and at his beckoning nod,
The clansmen to the altar trod;
And not a whisper breathed around,
And nought was heard of mortal sound,
Save from the clanking arms they bore,
That rattled on the marble floor;
And each, as he approached in haste,
Upon the scalp his right hand placed:
With livid lips and gathered brow,
Each uttered in his turn his vow.
The clansmen to the altar trod;
And not a whisper breathed around,
And nought was heard of mortal sound,
Save from the clanking arms they bore,
That rattled on the marble floor;
And each, as he approached in haste,
Upon the scalp his right hand placed:
With livid lips and gathered brow,
Each uttered in his turn his vow.
Fierce Malcolm watched the passing scene,
And searched them through with glances keen,
Then dashed a tear-drop from his eye—
Unbid it came—he knew not why.
Exulting high, he towering stood:
“Kinsmen,” he cried, “of Alpin's blood,
And worthy of Clan-Alpin's name,
Unstained by cowardice and shame!
Een do, spair nocht, in time of ill,
Shall be Clan-Alpin's legend still.”
And searched them through with glances keen,
Then dashed a tear-drop from his eye—
Unbid it came—he knew not why.
90
“Kinsmen,” he cried, “of Alpin's blood,
And worthy of Clan-Alpin's name,
Unstained by cowardice and shame!
Een do, spair nocht, in time of ill,
Shall be Clan-Alpin's legend still.”
| The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell | |