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He comes na on a wassail rout,

Of revel, sport, and play; Our swords gart Fame proclaim us men,

Lang ere this ruefu' day.

The rose I pluckt o' right is mine,

Our hearts together grew, Like twa sweet roses on ae stak,

Frae hate to love she flew.

Swift as a winged shaft he sped;

Bald Duncan said in jeer,
Gae tell thy master, beardless youth,

We are nae wont to fear.

He comes na on a wassail rout,

Of revels, sport, and play; Our swords gart Fame proclaim us men,

Lang ere this ruefu' day.

The rose I pluckt o' right is mine,

Our hearts together grew; Like twa sweet roses on ae stak,

Frae hate to love they flew.

He stampt his foot upo' the ground,

And thus in wrath did say,
God strike my saul, if frae this field,

We baith in life shall gae!

He wav'd his hand : the pipers play'd,

The targets clattered round; And now between the meeting faes

Was little space of ground.

But wha is she that rins sae fast?

Her feet nae stap they find; Sae swiftly rides the milky cloud,

Upo' the simmer's wind.

Her face a mantle screen'd afore,

She show'd of lily hue;
Sae frae the grey mist breaks the sun,

To drink the morning dew.

Alack! my friends, what sight is this?

O, stap your rage! she cry'd,
Whar love with honey'd lips should be,

Mak not a breach so wide.

Can then my uncle draw his sword,

My husband's breast to bleed? Or can my sweet Lord do to him

Sic foul and ruthless deed ?

Bethink you, uncle, of the time,

My gray-hair'd father died, Frae whar your shrill horn shuck the wood,

He sent for you with speed.

My brother, guard my bairn, he said,

She'll hae nae father soon, Regard her, Donald, as your ain,

I'll ask nae other boon.

Would then my uncle force my love,

Whar love it coudna be?
Or wed me to the man I hate?.

Was this his care of me?

Can these brave

men,

who but of late Together chas'd the deer, Against their comrades bend their bows,

In bluidy hunting here?

She spake, while trickling ran the tear

Her blushing cheek alang; And silence, like a heavy cloud,

O'er a' the warriors hang.

Syne stapt the red-hair'd Malcolm furth,

Three-score his years and three; Yet a' the strength of youngest youth,

In sic an eild had he.

Nae pity was there in his breast,

For war alane he loo'd;
His grey een spurkled at the sight,

Of plunder, death, and bluid.

What! shall our hearts of steel, he said,

Bend to a woman's sang?
Or can her words our honour quit,

For sic dishonest wrang ?

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,

O uncle hear my prayer; Heidna that man of bluidy look.

She bad na time for mair.

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,

And Duncan see'd her fa';
Around he stood, for in his limbs

There was nae power at a'.

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,

With arms in triumph dight,
Seems to the traveller like a man,

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