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 126 SCOTT

'I little thought, when first thy rein I slacked upon the banks of Seine, That Highland eagle e'er should feed On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed ! Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, That costs thy life, my gallant grey ! '

Then through the dell his horn resounds, From vain pursuit to call the hounds. Back limped with slow and crippled pace The sulky leaders of the chase; Close to their master's side they pressed, With drooping tail and humbled crest; But still the dingle's hollow throat Prolonged the swelling bugle-note. The owlets started from their dream, The eagles answered with their scream, Round and around the sounds were cast, Till echoes seemed an answering blast; And on the hunter hied his way, To join some comrades of the day.

��LVII THE OUTLAW

O, BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green,

And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen.

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