Waverley

'I have given you the trouble of walking to this spot, Captain Waverley, both because I thought the scenery would interest you, and because a Highland song would suffer still more from my imperfect translation were I to introduce it without its own wild and appropriate accompaniments. To speak in the poetical language of my country, the seat of the Celtic Muse is in the mist of the secret and solitary hill, and her voice in the murmur of the mountain stream. He who woos her must love the barren rock more than the fertile valley, and the solitude of the desert better than the festivity of the hall.'

Few could have heard this lovely woman make this declaration, with a voice where harmony was exalted by pathos, without exclaiming that the muse whom she invoked could never find a more appropriate representative. But Waverley, though the thought rushed on his mind, found no courage to utter it. Indeed, the wild feeling of romantic delight with which he heard the few first notes she drew from her instrument amounted almost to a sense of pain. He would not for worlds have quitted his place by her side; yet he almost longed for solitude, that he might decipher and examine at leisure the complication of emotions which now agitated his bosom.

Flora had exchanged the measured and monotonous recitative of the bard for a lofty and uncommon Highland air, which had been a battle-song in former ages. A few irregular strains introduced a prelude of a wild and peculiar tone, which harmonised well with the distant waterfall, and the soft sigh of the evening breeze in the rustling leaves of an aspen, which overhung the seat of the fair harpress. The following verses convey but little idea of the feelings with which, so sung and accompanied, they were heard by Waverley:—

    There is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale, 
    But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael. 
    A stranger commanded—it sunk on the land, 
    It has frozen each heart, and benumb'd every hand!

    The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust, 
    The bloodless claymore is but redden'd with rust; 
    On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear, 
    It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.

    The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse, 
    Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse! 
    Be mute every string, and be hush'd every tone, 
    That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.

    But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past, 
    The morn on our mountains is dawning at last; 
    Glenaladale's peaks are illumined with the rays, 
    And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.

[Footnote: The young and daring adventurer, Charles Edward, landed at Glenaladale, in Moidart, and displayed his standard in the valley of Glenfinnan, mustering around it the Mac-Donalds, the Camerons, and other less numerous clans, whom he had prevailed on to join him. There is a monument erected on the spot, with a Latin inscription by the late Doctor Gregory.]

    O high-minded Moray! the exiled! the dear! 
    In the blush of the dawning the STANDARD uprear! 
    Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly, 
    Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh!

[Footnote: The Marquis of Tullibardine's elder brother, who, long exiled, returned to Scotland with Charles Edward in 1745.]

    Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break, 
    Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake? 
    That dawn never beam'd on your forefathers' eye, 
    But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.

    O, sprung from the Kings who in Islay kept state, 
    Proud chiefs of Clan Ranald, Glengarry, and Sleat! 
    Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow, 
    And resistless in union rush down on the foe!

    True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel, 
    Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel! 
    Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell, 
    Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell!

    Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail, 
    Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale! 
    May the race of Clan Gillean, the fearless and free, 
    Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee!

    Let the clan of grey Fingon, whose offspring has given 
    Such heroes to earth and such martyrs to heaven, 
    Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri More, 
    To launch the long galley and stretch to the oar.

    How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display 
    The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey! 
    How the race of wrong'd Alpine and murder'd Glencoe 
    Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe!

    Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar, 
    Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More! 
    Mac-Neil of the islands, and Moy of the Lake, 
    For honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake!

Here a large greyhound, bounding up the glen, jumped upon Flora and interrupted her music by his importunate caresses. At a distant whistle he turned and shot down the path again with the rapidity of an arrow. 'That is Fergus's faithful attendant, Captain Waverley, and that was his signal. He likes no poetry but what is humorous, and comes in good time to interrupt my long catalogue of the tribes, whom one of your saucy English poets calls

    Our bootless host of high-born beggars, 
    Mac-Leans, Mac-Kenzies, and Mac-Gregors.'

Waverley expressed his regret at the interruption.

'O you cannot guess how much you have lost! The bard, as in duty bound, has addressed three long stanzas to Vich Ian Vohr of the Banners, enumerating all his great properties, and not forgetting his being a cheerer of the harper and bard—"a giver of bounteous gifts." Besides, you should have heard a practical admonition to the fair-haired son of the stranger, who lives in the land where the grass is always green—the rider on the shining pampered steed, whose hue is like the raven, and whose neigh is like the scream of the eagle for battle. This valiant horseman is affectionately conjured to remember that his ancestors were distinguished by their loyalty as well as by their courage. All this you have lost; but, since your curiosity is not satisfied, I judge, from the distant sound of my brother's whistle, I may have time to sing the concluding stanzas before he comes to laugh at my translation.'

    Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, 
    Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake! 
    'T is the bugle—but not for the chase is the call; 
    'T is the pibroch's shrill summons—but not to the hall.

    'T is the summons of heroes for conquest or death, 
    When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath: 
    They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe, 
    To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.