GLENCOE.
245
For fire, and blood, and death, had left
On every thing their trace.
The lake was covered o'er with weeds,
Choked was our little rill,
There was no sign of corn or grass,
The cushat's song was still:
Burnt to the dust, an ashy heap
Was every cottage round;—
I listened, but I could not hear
One single human sound:
I spoke, and only my own words
Were echoed from the hill;
I sat me down to weep, and curse
The hand that wrought this ill.
