On pages 2, and 13, of this volume we talked about the different meters in which poetry is written. In iambic poetry each foot contains two syllables, the second of which is accented. There is another kind of foot composed of two syllables. In this the accent falls on the first syllable. _Bannockburn_ gives examples of this. To illustrate, we will rewrite the first stanza, using the words in their English form, and mark off the feet and the accent: Scots', who | have' with | Wal'-lace | bled', Scots', whom | Bruce' has | of'-ten | led'; Wel'-come | to' your | go'-ry | bed', Or' to | glo'rious | vic'-to | ry'. Each one of these lines ends with an accented syllable, but that may be disregarded in studying the feet. This foot is called the _trochee_, and it will help you to remember it if you will think that the word _tro'chee_ has two syllables and is accented on the first. This poem, then, is in _trochaic trimeter_, with added accented syllables at the ends of the lines. Read the other stanzas carefully, throwing the accent prominently on the first syllable of each foot. When you read to bring out the meter of a poem you are said to be _scanning_ it. When you are in the habit of scanning poetry you will find that you can do it very nicely and without spoiling the sound. At first you will probably accent the syllables too strongly, and then people will say that you are reading in a _sing-song_ way, a thing to be avoided. Of course you will understand that the only way to bring out the meter of a poem is to read it aloud, but after you have become familiar with the various meters and have read aloud a great deal, you will be conscious of the rhythm when you read to yourself. It is this consciousness of rhythm that gives much of the enjoyment to those who love poetry, even when they do not read it aloud. BOAT SONG _From_ LADY OF THE LAKE _By_ SIR WALTER SCOTT Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances! Honored and blest be the evergreen pine! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, While every Highland glen Sends our shout back again, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" Ours is no sapling, chance sown by the fountain, Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain The more shall Clan Alpine exult in her shade. Moored in the rifted rock, Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow: Menteith and Breadalbane, then Echo his praise again, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"