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 Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If evermore should meet those mutual eyes Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn should rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar, And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips—“the foe! they come! they come!”

And wild and high the 'Cameron's gathering' rose The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard—and heard too have her Saxon foes; How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! but with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring, which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years; And Evan's, Donald's fame, ring in each clansman's ears.

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaven Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving—if aught inanimate e'er grieves— Over the unreturning brave,—alas! Ere evening to be trodden as the grass,