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 My clans-man's blood demands revenge

Not yet prepared?—By heaven I change

My thought, and hold thy valour light

As that of some vain carpet knight,

Who ill deserved my courteous care,

And whose best boast is but to wear

A braid of his fair lady's hair.'

—'I thank thee Rhoderick, for the word!

It nerves my heart, it steels my sword;

For I have sworn this braid to stain

In the best blood that warms thy vein.

Now, truce, farewell! and ruth begone!

Yet think not that by thee alone,

Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown.

Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,

Start at my whistle clansmen stern,

Of this small horn one feeble blast

Would fearful odds against thee cast.

But fear not—doubt not—which thou wilt—

We try this quarrel hilt to hilt.'—

Then each at once his falchion drew,

Each on the ground his scabbard threw,

Each looked to sun, and stream and plain,

As what they ne'er might see again;

Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,

In dubious strife they darkly closed.

Ill far'd it then with Rhoderick Dhu,

That on the field his targe he threw,

Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide

Had death so often dashed aside:

For, trained abroad his arms to wield,

Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield.

He practised every pass and ward,

To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;

While less expert, though stronger far,

The Gael maintained unequal war.

Three times in closing strife they stood,

And thrice the saxon blade drank blood;