The Orphan Maid of Glencoe.

NOTE: - The tale is told a few years after the massacre of Glencoe, by a wandering bard, who had formerly been piper to MacDonald of Glencoe, but had escaped the fate of his kinsmen.

I tell a tale of woful tragedy,
Resulting from that fearful infamy;
That unsurpassed, unrivalled treachery,
That merciless, that beastlike butchery.

Upon the evening calm and bright,
That followed on the fatal night,
Just as the sun was setting red
Behind Benmore's sequestered head,
And weeping tears of yellow light,
That, streaming down, bedimmed his sight,
As he prepared to make his grave
Beneath the deep Atlantic wave;
I stood and viewed with starting tears
The silent scene of glorious years,
And thought me on my former pride,
As when I marched my chief beside,
Before my clansmen strong and bold -
Returning to our mountain hold,
Victorious in the bloody close,
And weighed with spoils of vanquished foes -
And filled the rocky glens around
With peals of wild, triumphant sound.
But when I saw the bloody stains,
And gazed upon the black remains,
And thought upon my murdered chief,
For rage I quick forgot my grief;
And deeply vowed of vengeance then
Upon the cursed Campbell men.
But then, alas! how vain my vow!
Where were Lochaber's warriors now?
When thus to bitter grief returned,
Adown the valley I discerned
A figure, and my fading eye
A female form could just descry,
Who onward came in fleet career,
Swiftly as speed the frighted deer.
Her gait and garb so light and wild
Bespoke the maid the mountain's child;
Her auburn tresses waved behind,
Bespread luxuriant on the wind;
And from her soft and deep blue eye,
In colour like the midnight sky,
There beamed a clear and beauteous light
As from the blue of northern night;
And to my side young Janet ran, -
The pride and flower of the clan.
With direful thoughts and faces dazed
We one upon the other gazed.
Nothing she spake, but turning 'round
In silence sought the cumbered ground.
A bitter cry the maiden gave
As she approached the open grave;
And as among its ways she went,
She wailed this mournful, wild lament.

Where, where is the beauty that once I could scan?
And where is the power and pride of my clan?
Ah! gloomy to-day is the vale of Glencoe!
And the house of Ian Abrach is humbled and low.

The bright spot of my childhood is reft of its light!
Dark, dark are the scenes it presents to my sight!
And the homes of its people have shared in its fate,
And its children are murdered through malice and hate.

Yes, the warm Highland heart, that had prompted the host
With the other to vie in regaling them most,
By the hand of the stranger, the wolf in the fold,
When the feasting is over lies lifeless and cold.

And the youth that had cheerfully led in the chase,
Whose mind never dreamed of dishonour so base,
And who weary that night had retired to rest,
Awoke with the treacherous steel in his breast.

And the damsel, bewildered with witcheries wove,
Elated with flattery, fêted with love,
In the height of her maidenly beauty and joy,
Having lain down to dream, was awakened to die.

And not even the babe that reposed on the breast
In its innocent peace was permitted to rest.
Prophetic and awful, the curses of guilt,
Are the cryings of children whose blood has been spilt!

And there lies the chieftain, beloved and revered,
His rule it was just, nor in conflict he feared;
He was butchered at night by the villainous foe,
And discoloured with blood in his couch in the snow.

    *    *    *    *    *

My father! my father! Why here dost thou lie?
Arouse thee, dear father, arouse thee, 'tis I!
Why dost thou not answer? My God! it is so!
And his lips are as cold and as white as the snow.

Thou wilt lead not again in the field or the chase,
Nor clasp thy dear Janet in loving embrace.
Ah! dreary and barren life's desert to me!
Kind heavenly Father, O take me to Thee.

    *    *    *    *    *

And, O heaven for strength! And my mother! - Thy hand
Too is cold, and discoloured with death's pallid brand;
And thine eye, which had beamed with thy love as thou smiled,
Is fixed on the welkin both wanly and wild.

And hushed are the tones of that motherly voice,
In whose kind commendation I used to rejoice.
Alas! I am lonely without thee to cheer;
Do thou, gentle Mother of Jesus, be near!

    *    *    *    *    *

I am fatherless, motherless - Ronald! - my God! -
Thy sepulchre too is the snow-covered sod!
My Ronald, my hero, the king of my heart!
O Christ, Thou hast power, do Thou life re-impart!

The sisters of old were made glad at Thy will,
But my lover lies breathless and motionless still.
Can naught else restore warmth to the frame of the dead?
Not my passion's embrace, nor the hot tears I shed?

But, alas! my Narcissus is lifeless at length,
For ever laid low his Herculean strength,
And that manly bosom, that throbbed with the sway
Of a heart true and noble, is silent for aye.

Yet he looks like a prince, as he lies in repose
On his marble-white tomb, and o'er-wreathed with snows.
The snow too is thy shroud, and thy funeral chant
Is the wail of a maiden lamenting thy want.

O Ronald, so generous, noble, and true,
How unworthy thy loved one! how deeply I rue
My pride, my caprice, and the preference shown -
But now thou art dead, and the damned one is flown.

How deeply he loved! and how zealously wooed!
My God! 'tis beside where our cottage late stood!
He could have escaped, but alone would not fly,
And - aha! - for my safety, for me did he die.

Aha! aha! the maiden cried,
Aha! aha! the rocks replied;
'Twas carried weird upon the wind,
And wildly woke the hills behind;
It smote the birds upon the wing,
They fled afar, and ceased to sing;
It pierced my heart that still its blight
It bears upon it day and night;
Still when the eventime is nigh
I hear the maiden's withering cry,
And see her spectral shadow by,
Which stays and haunts my restless dreams,
Disturbed by those heart-rending screams.
Aha! she cried, and down the glen
She madly took her way again.

Through shadowy vale, o'er shaggy hill
Young Janet wanders frantic still,
Watched and sustained from year to year
By pity of the mountaineer,
Who knows the story of her woe,
And curses deep her kindred's foe;
And on from year to year the same
She wildly calls on Ronald's name.