Of waves, I heard a dying groan; Another flash!--the spearman floats A weltering corse beside the boats, And the stern matron o'er him stood, Her hand and dagger streaming blood." [354] A bonnet piece is an elegant gold coin, bearing on one side the head of James V. wearing a bonnet. XXI. "'Revenge! revenge!' the Saxons cried-- The Gael's exulting shout replied. Despite the elemental rage, Again they hurried to engage; But, ere they closed in desperate fight, Bloody with spurring came a knight, Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag, Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag. Clarion and trumpet by his side Rung forth a truce note high and wide, While, in the Monarch's name, afar An herald's voice forbade the war, For Bothwell's lord, and Roderick bold, Were both, he said, in captive hold." --But here the lay made sudden stand, The harp escaped the Minstrel's hand!-- Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy How Roderick brook'd his minstrelsy: At first, the Chieftain, to the chime, With lifted hand, kept feeble time; That motion ceased,--yet feeling strong Varied his look as changed the song; At length, no more his deafen'd ear The minstrel melody can hear; His face grows sharp,--his hands are clench'd, As if some pang his heartstrings wrench'd; Set are his teeth, his fading eye Is sternly fix'd on vacancy; Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu!-- Old Allan-Bane look'd on aghast, While grim and still his spirit pass'd: But when he saw that life was fled, He pour'd his wailing o'er the dead. XXII. LAMENT. "And art them cold and lowly laid, Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid, Breadalbane's[355] boast, Clan-Alpine's shade! For thee shall none a requiem say?-- For thee,--who loved the Minstrel's lay, For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay, The shelter of her exiled line? E'en in this prison house of thine, I'll wail for Alpine's honor'd Pine! "What groans shall yonder valleys fill! What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill! What tears of burning rage shall thrill, When mourns thy tribe thy battles done, Thy fall before the race was won, Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun! There breathes not clansman of thy line, But would have given his life for thine.-- Oh, woe for Alpine's honor'd Pine! "Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!-- The captive thrush may brook the cage, The prison'd eagle dies for rage. Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain! And, when its notes awake again, Even she, so long beloved in vain, Shall with my harp her voice combine, And mix her woe and tears with mine, To wail Clan-Alpine's honor'd Pine."-- [355] The region bordering Loch Tay. XXIII.