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If heaven decrees Slaughter and ruin for us, come it then! But let our enemies, close grappled to us, In deadly strife, their ruin join with ours. Let corse to corse, upon the bloody heath, Maclean and Campbell, stiff'ning side by side, With all the gnashing ecstasy of hate Upon their ghastly visages impress'd, Lie horribly!—For ev'ry widow's tear Shed in our clan, let matron Campbells howl.

Indeed, my friends, although too much in ire, Benlora wisely speaks. — Shall we in truth Wait for our ruin from a crafty foe, Who here maintains this keenly watchful spy In gentle kindness masked?

Nor need we fear, As good Lochtarish hath already urged, Her death will rouse Argyll. It will be deem'd, As we shall grace it with all good respect Of funeral pomp, a natural visitation.