For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood,
High converse with the dead they hold,
And oft espy the fated shroud,
That shall the future corpse enfold.
O so it fell, that on a day,
To rouse the red deer from their den,
The chiefs have ta'en their distant way,
And scour'd the deep Glenfinlas glen.
No vassals wait their sports to aid,
To watch their safety, deck their board?
Their simple dress, the Highland plaid,
Their trusty guard, the Highland sword.
Three summer days, through brake and dell,
Their whistling shafts successful flew;
And still, when dewy evening fell,
The quarry to their hut they drew.
In grey Glenfinlas' deepest nook
The solitary cabin stood,
Fast by Moneira's sullen brook,
Which murmurs through that lonely wood.
Soft fell the night, the sky was calm,
When three successive days had flown;
And summer mist in dewy balm
Steep'd heathy bank, and mossy stone.
The moon, half-hid in silvery flakes,
Afar her dubious radiance shed,
Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes,
And resting on Benledi's head.
Now in their hut, in social guise,
Their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy;
And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes,
As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy.
—"What lack we here to crown our bliss,
"While thus the pulse of joy beats high?
"What, but fair woman's yielding kiss,
"Her panting breath, and melting eye?
"To chase the deer of yonder shades,
"This morning left their father's pile
"The fairest of our mountain maids,
"The daughters of the proud Glengyle.