“Not done old Tuncan any harm! Tidn’t you’ll know what ta tog would pe toing to her aancestors of Glenco? Och hone! Och hone! Gif her ta tog’s heart of him in her teeth, and she’ll pe tearing it--tearing it--tearing it!” cried the piper in a growl of hate, and with the look of a maddened tiger, the skin of his face drawn so tight over the bones that they seemed to show their whiteness through it. “You quite terrify me,” said Florimel, really shocked. “If you talk like that, I must go away. Such words are not fit for a lady to hear.” The old man heard her rise: he fell on his knees, and held out his arms in entreaty. “She’s pegging your pardons, my laty. Sit town once more, anchel from hefen, and she’ll not say it no more. Put she’ll pe telling you ta story, and then you’ll pe knowing tat what’ll not pe fit for laties to hear, as coot laties had to pear!” He caught up the Lossie pipes, threw them down again, searched in a frenzy till he found his own, blew up the bag with short thick pants, forced from them a low wail, which ended in a scream--then broke into a kind of chant, the words of which were something like what follows: he had sense enough to remember that for his listener they must be English. Doubtless he was translating as he went on. His chanter all the time kept up a low pitiful accompaniment, his voice only giving expression to the hate and execration of the song. Black rise the hills round the vale of Glenco; Hard rise its rocks up the sides of the sky; Cold fall the streams from the snow on their summits; Bitter are the winds that search for the wanderer; False are the vapours that trail o’er the correi: Blacker than caverns that hollow the mountain, Harder than crystals in the rock’s bosom, Colder than ice borne down in the torrents, More bitter than hail wind-swept o’er the correi, Falser than vapours that hide the dark precipice, Is the heart of the Campbell, the hell-hound Glenlyon. Is it blood that is streaming down into the valley? Ha! ’tis the red-coated blood-hounds of Orange. To hunt the red-deer, is this a fit season? Glenlyon, said Ian, the son of the chieftain: What seek ye with guns and with gillies so many? Friends, a warm fire, good cheer, and a drink, Said the liar of hell, with the death in his heart. Come home to my house--it is poor, but your own. Cheese of the goat, and flesh of black cattle, And dew of the mountain to make their hearts joyful, They gave them in plenty, they gave them with welcome; And they slept on the heather, and skins of the red deer. Och hone for the chief! God’s curse on the traitors! Och hone for the chief--the father of his people! He is struck through the brain, and not in the battle!