15
Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines
On Bochastles mouldering lines,
Where Rome, the Empress of the world,
Of yore her eagle wings unfurled;
And here his course the Chieftain staid,
Threw down his target and his plaid,
And to the Lowland warrior said:
‘Bold Saxon to his promise just,
Vich-Alpin has discharged his trust,
This murderous Chief, this ruthless man,
This head of a rebellous clan.
Hath led thee safe through watch and ward,
Far past Clan-Alpine’s outmost guard.
Now man to man, and steel to steel,
A Chieftain’s vengeance thou shalt feel
See, here, all vantagless I stand,
Armed like thyself, with single brand;
For this is Coilantogle ford,
And thou must keep thee with thy sword.
The Saxon paused;—‘I ne’er delayed
When foeman bad me draw my blade;
Nay more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death
Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,
And my deep debt for life preserved,
A better meed have well deserved:
Can nought but blood our feud atone!
Are there no means?’—No, Stranger, none
And hear,—to fire thy flagging zeal,
The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;
For thus spoke Fate by prophet bred
Between the living and the dead:
Who spills the foremost foeman’s life
