XX.
All in the Trosachs’ glen was still,
Noontide was sleeping on the hill:
Sudden his guide whoop’d loud and high—
“Murdoch! was that a signal cry?”—
He stammer’d forth—“I shout to scare
Yon raven from his dainty fare.”
He look’d—he knew the raven’s prey,
His own brave steed:—“Ah! gallant gray!
For thee—for me, perchance—’twere well
We ne’er had seen the Trosachs’ dell.—
Murdoch, move first—but silently;
Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die!”
Jealous and sullen, on they fared,
Each silent, each upon his guard.