CHAPTER XVII
WITH SIR COLIN CAMPBELL AND THE SUTHERLANDS TO LUCKNOW
Pipes of the misty moorlands,
Voice of the glens and hills;
The droning of the torrents,
The treble of the rills!
Not the braes of broom and heather,
Nor the mountains black with rain,
Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,
Have heard your sweetest strain!