"O TELL me, Harper, wherefore flow Thy wayward notes of wail and woe Far down the desert of Glencoe, Where none may list their melody? Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly, Or to the dun deer glancing by, Or to the eagle that from high Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy."
"No, not to these, for they have rest,— The mist-wreath has the mountain-crest, The stag his lair, the erne her nest, Abode of lone security. But those for whom I pour the lay, Not wild-wood deep, nor mountain grey, Not this deep dell that shrouds from day, Could screen from treach'rous cruelty.
"Their flag was furl'd, and mute their drum, The very household dogs were dumb, Unwont to bay at guests that come In guise of hospitality. His blithest notes the piper plied, Her gayest snood the maiden tied, The dame her distaff flung aside, To tend her kindly housewifery.
"The hand that mingled in the meal, At midnight drew the felon steel, And gave the host's kind breast to feel Meed for his hospitality! The friendly hearth which warm'd that hand, At midnight arm'd it with the brand That bade destruction's flames expand Their red and fearful blazonry.
"Then woman's shriek was heard in vain, Nor infancy's unpitied plain, More than the warrior's groan, could gain Respite from ruthless butchery! The winter wind that whistled shrill, The snows that night that cloked the hill, Though wild and pitiless, had still Far more than southron clemency.
"Long have my harp's best notes been gone, Few are its strings, and faint their tone, They can but sound in desert lone Their grey-hair'd master's misery. Were each grey hair a minstrel string, Each chord should imprecations fling, Till startled Scotland loud should ring, " 'Revenge for blood and treachery.' "