'What think I of him?--woe the while That brought such wanderer to our isle!

Thy father's battle-brand, of yore For Tine-man forged by fairy lore, What time he leagued, no longer foes His Border spears with Hotspur's bows, Did, self- unscabbarded, foreshow The footstep of a secret foe.

If courtly spy hath harbored here, What may we for the Douglas fear?

What for this island, deemed of old Clan-Alpine's last and surest hold?

If neither spy nor foe, I pray What yet may jealous Roderick say?--Nay, wave not thy disdainful head!

Bethink thee of the discord dread That kindled when at Beltane game Thou least the dance with Malcolm Graeme;Still, though thy sire the peace renewed Smoulders in Roderick's breast the feud:

Beware!--But hark! what sounds are these?

My dull ears catch MO faltering breeze No weeping birch nor aspens wake, Nor breath is dimpling in the lake;Still is the canna's hoary beard, Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard--And hark again! some pipe of war Sends the hold pibroch from afar.'