Lady of the Lake

Moored in the rifted rock,
Proof to the tempest's shock, 
Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;
Menteith and Breadalbane, then,
Echo his praise again,
'Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!'

XX

Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin,
And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied;
Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,
And the best of Loch-Lomond lie dead on her side.

Widow and Saxon maid Long shall lament our raid, 
Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;
Lennox and Leven-glen Shake when they hear again
'Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!'

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the highlands! 
Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green Pine!
O that the rose-bud that graces yon islands,
Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!

O that some seedling gem,
Worthy such noble stem, 
Honored and blest in their shadow might grow;
Loud should Clan-Alpine then
Ring from her deepmost glen,
'Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!'

XXI

With all her joyful female band, 
Had Lady Margaret sought the strand.

Loose on the breeze their tresses flew,
And high their snowy arms they threw,
As echoing back with shrill acclaim,
And chorus wild, the Chieftain's name; 

While, prompt to please, with mother's art,
The darling passion of his heart,
The Dame called Ellen to the strand,
To greet her kinsman ere he land:
'Come, loiterer, come! a Douglas thou, 
And shun to wreathe a victor's brow?'

Reluctantly and slow, the maid
The unwelcome summoning obeyed,
And, when a distant bugle rung,
In the mid-path aside she sprung: 
'List Allan-bane! From mainland cast
I hear my father's signal blast.
Be ours,' she cried, 'the skiff to guide,
And waft him from the mountain side.'

Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright, 
She darted to her shallop light,
And, eagerly while Roderick scanned,
For her dear form, his mother's band,
The islet far behind her lay,
And she had landed in the bay.

XXII

Some feelings are to mortals given,
With less of earth in them than heaven:

And if there be a human tear
From passion's dross refined and clear,
A tear so limpid and so meek,