The walls of his rude dwelling-place
Were hung with weapons bright—
With branching antlers of the chase,
And trophies won in fight.
His tall, gaunt hound, of proven worth,
Acute of eye and ear,
Slept idly on the lighted hearth,
Forgetful of the deer.
Cold dew—that herald which precedes
The winding-sheet, and wail
Of mourning ones—in clammy beads,
Stood on his forehead pale.
Faint grew the swell of his proud breast,
And dim his falcon-eye,
But manfully his lip suppressed
The groan of agony.
While ran his blood with feebler flow,
Strode in a clansman stout,
And told the chief, in accents low,
'A stranger waits without!'
Then syllabled the name—a word
Unwelcome to his ears,
Which darkly in his bosom stirred
The hoarded hate of years.
'No member of a hostile clan,
While heart or pulse can beat,
Shall see me,' said the dying man,
'In posture of defeat.
Array me in the spoils I took
From enemies laid low;
Clad thus, Macgregor cannot brook
The presence of a foe.'
'Bring forth the bonnet that I wore
When blood was on the heather,
Though in the mountain wind no more
Will nod its eagle feather:
Gird on my sword, of temper tried,
Old beam of hope in danger,
To deeds of hardihood allied,
And then admit the stranger!'
Attendants clad the dying man
In garb that well became
The leader of a martial clan,
A warrior of fame;
Admitted then his guest, who met
Reception stern and cold;
The Highland Chief could not forget
The bloody feuds of old.
The stranger soon withdrew. 'Now call
The harper in, to cheer
My passing spirit with the strain
Most welcome to my ear!'
The hoary minstrel brought his lyre,
To notes of battle strung,
And fingering its chords of fire,
In stormy concert, sung:
I.
'The plaid round his shoulders our leader hath thrown,
And a gathering blast on his bugle hath blown;
He calls on the dauntless and ready of hand
To gather around him with bonnet and brand;
Like hounds scenting out the retreat of the stag,
We quit, for the Lowlands, our home on the crag.
II.