The book of British ballads . eer;They howld in melancholy sound, Then closely couchd beside the seer. No Ronald yet; though midnight came,And sad were Moys prophetic dreams, As, bending oer the dying flame, He fed the watch-fires quivering gleams. Sudden the hounds erect their ears, And sudden cease their moaning howl ; Close pressd to Moy, they mark their fearsBy shivering limbs, and stifled growl. Untouchd, the harp began to ring,As softly, slowly, oped the door; And shook responsive every string,As light a footstep pressd the floor. And by the watch-fires glimmering light,Close by the mins
The book of British ballads . eer;They howld in melancholy sound, Then closely couchd beside the seer. No Ronald yet; though midnight came,And sad were Moys prophetic dreams, As, bending oer the dying flame, He fed the watch-fires quivering gleams. Sudden the hounds erect their ears, And sudden cease their moaning howl ; Close pressd to Moy, they mark their fearsBy shivering limbs, and stifled growl. Untouchd, the harp began to ring,As softly, slowly, oped the door; And shook responsive every string,As light a footstep pressd the floor. And by the watch-fires glimmering light,Close by the minstrels side was seen An huntress maid, in beauty bright,All dropping wet her robes of green. All dropping wet her garments seem ; Chilld was her cheek, her bosom bare,As, bending oer the dying gleam, She wrung the moisture from her hair. With maiden blush she softly said, O gentle huntsman, hast thou seen, In deep Glenfinlas moonlight glade,A lovely maid in vest of green : H. J. Townsend del. F. W. Bremston sc. 248 With her a Chief in Highland pride; His shoulders bear the hunters bow,The mountain dirk adorns his side, Far on the wind his tartans flow ? — And who art thou ? and who are they ? All ghastly gazing, Moy replied : And why, beneath the moons pale ray, Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas side ? — Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide,Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle, Our fathers towers oerhang her side,The castle of the bold Glengyle. To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer, Our woodland course this morn we bore, And haply met, while wandering here,The son of great Macgillianore. * 0 aid me, then, to seek the pair, Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost; Alone, I dare not venture there, Where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost. Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there ; Then first, my own sad vow to keep,Here will I pour my midnight prayer, Which still must rise when mortals sleep. O first, for pitys gentle sake, Guide a lone wanderer on her way! For I must
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