Allan, with wistful look the while, Marked Roderick landing on the isle;His master piteously he eyed, Then gazed upon the Chieftain's pride, Then dashed with hasty hand away From his dimmed eye the gathering spray;And Douglas, as his hand he laid On Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said:

'Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spy In my poor follower's glistening eye?

I 'll tell thee:--he recalls the day When in my praise he led the lay O'er the arched gate of Bothwell proud, While many a minstrel answered loud, When Percy's Norman pennon, won In bloody field, before me shone, And twice ten knights, the least a name As mighty as yon Chief may claim, Gracing my pomp, behind me came.

Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud Was I of all that marshalled crowd, Though the waned crescent owned my might, And in my train trooped lord and knight, Though Blantyre hymned her holiest lays, And Bothwell's bards flung back my praise, As when this old man's silent tear, And this poor maid's affection dear, A welcome give more kind and true Than aught my better fortunes knew.

Forgive, my friend, a father's boast,--

O, it out-beggars all I lost!'