But times grew stormy—bitter feuds arose,
Our clan was merciless to prostrate foes.
I never palliated my chieftain’s blame,
But mourned the sin, and reddened for the shame
Of that foul morn (Heaven blot it from the year!)
Whose shapes and shrieks still haunt my dreaming ear.
What could I do? a serf—Glenlyon’s page,
A soldier sworn at nineteen years of age;
T’ have breathed one grieved remonstrance to our chief,
The pit or gallows[102] would have cured my grief.