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 Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines On Bochastles mouldering lines, Where Rome, the Empress of the world, Of yore her eagle wings unfurled; And here his course the Chieftain staid, Threw down his target and his plaid, And to the Lowland warrior said: ‘Bold Saxon to his promise just, Vich-Alpin has discharged his trust, This murderous Chief, this ruthless man, This head of a rebellous clan. Hath led thee safe through watch and ward, Far past Clan-Alpine’s outmost guard. Now man to man, and steel to steel, A Chieftain’s vengeance thou shalt feel See, here, all vantagless I stand, Armed like thyself, with single brand; For this is Coilantogle ford, And thou must keep thee with thy sword.

The Saxon paused;—‘I ne’er delayed When foeman bad me draw my blade; Nay more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death Yet sure thy fair and generous faith, And my deep debt for life preserved, A better meed have well deserved: Can nought but blood our feud atone! Are there no means?’—No, Stranger, none And hear,—to fire thy flagging zeal, The Saxon cause rests on thy steel; For thus spoke Fate by prophet bred Between the living and the dead: Who spills the foremost foeman’s life His party conquers in the strife.’