He danced too, and brought out, with snarl and howl, "O Dia! Dia!" and, "Dioul! Dioul!"*

But sense foils fury—as the blowing whale
Spouts, bleeds, and dyes the waves without avail
Wears out the cable's length that makes him fast,
But, worn himself, comes up harpooned at last-
E'en so, devoid of sense, succumbs at length
Mere strength of zeal to intellectual strength.
His son's close logic so perplexed his pate,
The old hero rather shunned than sought debate;
Exhausting his vocabulary's store

Of oaths and nick-names, he could say no more,
But tapped his mull,† rolled mutely in his chair,
Or only whistled Killiecrankie's air.

Witch-legends Ronald scorned-ghost, kelpie, wraith, And all the trumpery of vulgar faith;

Grave matrons even were shocked to hear him slight
Authenticated facts of second-sight-

Yet never flinched his mockery to confound
The brutal superstition reigning round.
Reserved himself, still Ronald loved to scan
Men's natures and he liked the old hearty man;
So did the partner of his heart and life-
Who pleased her Ronald, ne'er displeased his wife.
His sense, 't is true, compared with Norman's son,
Was commonplace his tales too long outspun:
Yet Allan Campbell's sympathizing mind
Had held large intercourse with humankind;

*God and the devil-a favorite ejaculation of Highland saints. † Snuff-horn.

Seen much, and gayly, graphically drew

The men of every country, clime, and hue;
Nor ever stooped, though soldier-like his strain,
To ribaldry of mirth or oath profane.

All went harmonious till the guest began
To talk about his kindred, chief and clan,
And, with his own biography engrossed,
Marked not the changed demeanor of each host;
Nor how old choleric Norman's cheek became
Flushed at the Campbell and Breadalbane name.
Assigning, heedless of impending harm,
Their steadfast silence to his story's charm,
He touched a subject perilous to touch-

Saying, "Midst this well-known vale I wondered much
To lose my way. In boyhood, long ago,

I roamed, and loved each pathway of Glencoe;
Trapped leverets, plucked wild berries on its braes,
And fished along its banks long summer days.
But times grew stormy-bitter feuds arose,
Our clan was merciless to prostrate foes.

I never palliated my chieftain's blame,

But mourned the sin, and reddened for the shame
Of that foul morn (Heaven blot it from the year!)
Whose shapes and shrieks still haunt my dreaming ear.
What could I do?a serf-Glenlyon's page,

A soldier sworn at nineteen years of age;

To have breathed one grieved remonstrance to our chief,
The pit or gallows would have cured my grief.
Forced, passive as the musket in my hand,

I marched — when, feigning royalty's command,

*To hang their vassals, or starve them to death in a dungeon, was a privilege of the Highland chiefs who had hereditary jurisdictions.

Against the clan Macdonald, Stair's lord
Sent forth exterminating fire and sword;
And troops at midnight through the vale defiled,
Enjoined to slaughter woman, man, and child.
My clansmen many a year had cause to dread
The curse that day entailed upon their head;
Glenlyon's self confessed the avenging spell
I saw it light on him.

It so befell:

A soldier from our ranks to death was brought,
By sentence deemed too dreadful for his fault;
All was prepared - the coffin and the cart
Stood near twelve muskets, levelled at his heart.
The chief, whose breast for ruth had still some room,
Obtained reprieve a day before his doom;--
But of the awarded boon surmised no breath.
The sufferer knelt, blindfolded, waiting death,-
And met it. Though Glenlyon had desired
The musketeers to watch before they fired;
If from his pocket they should see he drew
A handkerchief- their volley should ensue;
But if he held a paper in its place,

It should be hailed the sign of pardoning grace:·
He, in a fatal moment's absent fit,

Drew forth the handkerchief, and not the writ;
Wept o'er the corpse and wrung his hands in woe,
Crying, 'Here's thy curse again-Glencoe! Glencoe !'"'
Though thus his guest spoke feelings just and clear,
The cabin's patriarch lent impatient ear;

Wroth that, beneath his roof, a living man

Should boast the swine-blood of the Campbell clan;

He hastened to the door. called out his son

To follow; walked a space, and thus begun :-
"You have not, Ronald, at this day to learn
The oath I took beside my father's cairn,
When you were but a babe a twelvemonth born;
Sworn on my dirk - by all that's sacred, sworn
To be revenged for blood that cries to Heaven -
Blood unforgivable, and unforgiven :
But never power, since then, have I possessed
To plant my dagger in a Campbell's breast.
Now, here's a self-accusing partisan,

Steeped in the slaughter of Macdonald's clan;
I scorn his civil speech and sweet-lipped show
Of pity—he is still our house's foe:

I'll perjure not myself

but sacrifice

The caitiff ere to-morrow's sun arise.

Stand! hear me you're my son, the deed is just; And if I say it must be done it must;

A debt of honor which my clansmen crave,
Their very dead demand it from the grave."
Conjuring then their ghosts, he humbly prayed
Their patience till the blood-debt should be paid.
But Ronald stopped him. "Sir, Sir, do not dim

Your honor by a moment's angry whim;

Your soul's too just and generous, were you cool,

To act at once the assassin and the fool.

Bring me the men on whom revenge is due,
And I will dirk them willingly as you!

But all the real authors of that black

Old deed are gone - you cannot bring them back.
And this poor guest, 't is palpable to judge,
In all his life ne'er bore our clan a grudge;

Dragged when a boy against his will to share
That massacre, he loathed the foul affair.
Think, if your hardened heart be conscience-proof,
To stab a stranger underneath your roof!
One who has broken bread within your gate -
Reflect before reflection comes too late,-
Such ugly consequences there may be
As judge and jury, rope and gallows-tree.
The days of dirking snugly are gone by,-
Where could you hide the body privily,
When search is made for 't?"

No tales nor will it float if leaded well.

I am determined!" - What could Ronald do?

No house within ear-reach of his halloo,

Though that would but have published household shame,
He temporized with wrath he could not tame,

And said, "Come in, till night put off the deed,
And ask a few more questions ere he bleed."
They entered; Norman with portentous air
Strode to a nook behind the stranger's chair,
And, speaking naught, sat grimly in the shade,
With dagger in his clutch beneath his plaid.
His son's own plaid, should Norman pounce his prey,
Was coiled thick round his arm, to turn away
Or blunt the dirk. He purposed leaving free
The door, and giving Allan time to flee,
Whilst he should wrestle with (no safe emprise)
His father's maniac strength and giant size.