Not faster o’er thy heathery braes,
Balquhidder, speeds the midnight blaze,[208]
Rushing, in conflagration strong,
Thy deep ravines and dells along,
Wrapping thy cliffs in purple glow,
And reddening the dark lakes below;
Nor faster speeds it, nor so far,
As o’er thy heaths the voice of war.
The signal roused to martial coil[209]
The sullen margin of Loch Voil,