THE

FATAL SISTER S.

A NODE.

Now

the storm begins to lour,

(Haste, the loom of hell prepare,)

Iron fleet of arrowy shower

Hurtles in the darkened air.

Glitt'ring lances are the loom,
Where the dusky warp we strain,
Weaving many a foldier's doom,
Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane.

See the grifly texture grow!

('Tis of human entrails made,) And the weights that play below, Each a gafping warrior's head.

Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore,,

Shoot the trembling cords along.

Sword, that once a monarch bore,

Keep the tiffue close and strong.

Mifta, black terrific maid,
Sangrida, and Hilda, fee!

Join the wayward work to aid:

"Tis the woof of victory.

Ere the ruddy fun be fet,

Pikes must shiver, javelins fing,

Blade with clatt'ring buckler meet,
Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.

(Weave

(Weave the crimson web of war,)

Let us go, and let us fly,

Where our friends the conflict share,

Where they triumph, where they die.

As the paths of fate we tread,

Wading thro' th' ensanguin'd field,

Gondula, and Geira, spread

O'er the youthful King your shield.

We the reins to flaughter give,
Ours to kill, and ours to spare:
Spite of danger he shall live.
(Weave the crimson web of war.)

They, whom once the defert-beach
Pent within its bleak domain,

Soon their ample fway fhall ftretch

O'er the plenty of the plain.

H 4

113

Low

Low the dauntlefs Earl is laid,

Gor'd with many a gaping wound:

Fate demands a nobler head:

Soon a King shall bite the ground.

Long his loss shall Eirin weep,
Ne'er again his likeness fee;

Long her strains in forrow steep:

Strains of immortality!

Horror covers all the heath,

Clouds of carnage blot the fun.

Sifters, weave the web of death.
Sifters, cease: The work is done.

Hail the task, and hail the hands!
Songs of joy and triumph fing;
Joy to the victorious bands;

Triumph to the younger King.

Mortal,

AN O D E.

Mortal, thou that hear'ft the tale,
Learn the tenour of our fong.
Scotland, thro' each winding vale,

Far and wide the notes prolong.

Sifters, hence with fpurs of fpeed!
Each her thundering faulchion wield;

Each beftride her fable fteed.
Hurry, hurry, to the field!

иб

THE