The rushes and the willow-wand

Are bristling into axe and brand,

And every tuft of broom gives life

To plaided warrior armed for strife.

That whistle garrisoned the glen

At once with full five hundred men,

As if the yawning hill to heaven

A subterranean host had given.

No one spoke above a whisper as we stole silently and quickly on, until at last we arrived at the scene of the scuffle.

It was a wild and strange retreat,