'What think I of him?—woe the while That brought such wanderer to our isle! Thy father's battle-brand, of yore For Tine-man forged by fairy lore. What time he leagued, no longer foes, His Border spears with Hotspur's bows, Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow The footstep of a secret foe. If courtly spy hath harbored here, What may we for the Douglas fear? What for this island, deemed of old Clan-Alpine's last and surest hold? If neither spy nor foe, I pray What yet may jealous Roderick say? —Nay, wave not thy disdainful head, Bethink thee of the discord dread, That kindled when at Beltane gamenote Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm Graeme; Still, though thy sire the peace renewed, Smolders in Roderick's breast the feud; Beware!—But hark, what sounds are these? My dull ears catch no faltering breeze, No weeping birch, nor aspens wake, Nor breath is dimpling in the lake, Still is the canna's hoary beard, Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard— And hark again! some pipe of war Sends the bold pibroch from afar.'
XVI
Far up the lengthened lake were spied Four darkening specks upon the tide, That, slow enlarging on the view, Four manned and masted barges grew, And, bearing downwards from Glengyle, Steered full upon the lonely isle; The point of Brianchoil they passed, And, to the windward as they cast, Against the sun they gave to shine The bold Sir Roderick's bannered Pine. Nearer and nearer as they bear, Spears, pikes, and axes flash in air. Now might you see the tartans brave, And plaids and plumage dance and wave; Now see the bonnets sink and rise, As his tough oar the rower plies; See, flashing at each sturdy stroke, The wave ascending into smoke; See the proud pipers on the bow, And mark the gaudy streamers flow From their loud chanters down, and sweep The furrowed bosom of the deep, As, rushing through the lake amain, They plied the ancient Highland strain.
XVII
Ever, as on they bore, more loud And louder rung the pibroch proud.
