He comes na on a wassail rout, Our swords gart Fame proclaim us men, The rose I pluckt o' right is mine, Our hearts together grew, Like twa sweet roses on ae stak, Swift as a winged shaft he sped; Gae tell thy master, beardless youth, He comes na on a wassail rout, Our swords gart Fame proclaim us men, The rose I pluckt o' right is mine, Our hearts together grew; Like twa sweet roses on ae stak, He stampt his foot upo' the ground, God strike my saul, if frae this field, He wav'd his hand: the pipers play'd, But wha is she that rins sae fast? Her face a mantle screen'd afore, She show'd of lily hue; Sae frae the grey mist breaks the sun, Alack! my friends, what sight is this? Can then my uncle draw his sword, Bethink you, uncle, of the time, Frae whar your shrill horn shuck the wood, My brother, guard my bairn, he said, Would then my uncle force my love, Or wed me to the man I hate? · Can these brave men, who but of late Against their comrades bend their bows, She spake, while trickling ran the tear Her blushing cheek alang; And silence, like a heavy cloud, Syne stapt the red-hair'd Malcolm furth, Nae pity was there in his breast, His grey een spurkled at the sight, Of plunder, death, and bluid. What! shall our hearts of steel, he said, Or can her words our honour quit, For this did a' these warriors come, To hear an idle tale? And o'er our death-accustomed arms Shall silly tears prevail? They gied a shout, their bows they tuik, They clash'd their steely swords; Like the loud waves of Barra's shore, There was nae room for words. A cry the weeping Mary gied, For in the midst anon there came, A blind unweeting dart, That glanc'd frae aff her Duncan's targe, And strack her to the heart. Awhile she staggar'd, syne she fell, Around he stood, for in his limbs The spear he meant at faes to fling, Stood fix'd within his hand; ; His lips half open, cou'dna speak, His life was at a stand. Sae the black stump of some auld aik, |