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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 hold 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 massed 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 tartars 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.

       At first the sounds, by distance tame,

       Mellowed along the waters came,

       And, lingering long by cape and bay,

       Wailed every harsher note away,

       Then bursting bolder on the ear,

       The clan’s shrill Gathering they could hear,

       Those thrilling sounds that call the might

       Of old Clan-Alpine to the fight.

       Thick beat the rapid notes, as when

       The mustering hundreds shake the glen,

       And hurrying at the signal dread,

       ‘Fine battered earth returns their tread.

       Then prelude light, of livelier tone,

       Expressed their merry marching on,

       Ere peal of closing battle rose,

       With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows;

       And mimic din of stroke and ward,

       As broadsword upon target jarred;

       And groaning pause, ere yet again,

       Condensed, the battle yelled amain:

       The rapid charge, the rallying shout,

       Retreat borne headlong into rout,

       And bursts of triumph, to declare

       Clan-Alpine’s congest—all were there.

       Nor ended thus the strain, but slow

       Sunk in a moan prolonged and low,

       And changed the conquering clarion swell

       For wild lament o’er those that fell.

       XVIII

      The war-pipes ceased, but lake and hill

       Were busy with their echoes still;

       And, when they slept, a vocal strain

       Bade their hoarse chorus wake again,

       While loud a hundred clansmen raise

       Their voices in their Chieftain’s praise.

       Each boatman, bending to his oar,

       With measured sweep the burden bore,

       In such wild cadence as the breeze

       Makes through December’s leafless trees.

       The chorus first could Allan know,

       ‘Roderick Vich Alpine, ho! fro!’

       And near, and nearer as they rowed,

       Distinct the martial ditty flowed.

       XIX

      Boat Song

      Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!

       Honored and blessed be the evergreen Pine!

       Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,

       Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!

       Heaven send it happy dew,

       Earth lend it sap anew,

       Gayly to bourgeon and broadly to grow,

       While every Highland glen

       Sends our shout back again,

       ‘Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!’

      Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,

      Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;

       When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain,

       The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.

       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 evergreen Pine!

       O that the rosebud that graces yon islands

       Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!

       O that some seedling gem,

       Worthy such noble stem,

       Honored and blessed 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,

      

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