Come from deep glen and from mountain so rocky,
Warpipe and pennon are at Inverlochy.
Come ev'ry hill-plaid and true heart that wears one,
Come ev'ry steel blade and strong hand that bears one.
Leave untended the herd
And the flock without shelter,
The corpse uninterr'd
And the bride at the altar.
Leave the deer, leave the steer.
Leave nets and barges,
Come in your fighting gear,
Broad swords and targes.
Come as the winds come, when forests are rended,
Come as the waves come, when navies are stranded.
Faster come, faster come, faster and faster,
Chief, vassal, page and groom, tenant and master!
Fast they come, fast they come,
See how they gather,
Wide wave the eagle plumes
Blended with heather.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
Forward each man set,
Pibroch o' Donuil Dhu,
Knell for the onset!
I wonder. How does it happen that they are playing my march here? I do not even remember whether I left the score in Vienna or took it with me.
Now they play other music, the overture of Poet and Peasant, of course, and the waltz from the Merry Widow and other things—all Viennese, my God!—as if to make it still harder to me, to think that these days of Vienna, these beautiful days of mirth and sorrow, should be gone for ever, for ever!—And then, then they play the "Pibroch o' Donuil Dhu" once more, and then nothing else. Nothing. I dream, I wonder, and an hour passes.
"Post!"
This cry would awaken a dormouse. There are but three things at the front. Long stretches of boredom, short ones of fright, and post.
Two of the letters are for me, and the first one is from Dad. Just now I had been wondering at that strange performance of the "Pibroch o' Donuil Dhu." Here is the solution of the riddle.
"My lad,