breast, When she searches for her offspring round the relics of her nest. For in many a spot the tartan peered above the wintry heap, Marking where a dead Macdonald lay within his frozen sleep. Tremblingly we scooped the covering from each kindred victim's head, And the living lips were burning on the cold ones of the dead. And I left them with their dearest--dearest charge had every one-- Left the maiden with her lover, left the mother with her son. I alone of all was mateless--far more wretched I than they, For the snow would not discover where my lord and husband lay. But I wandered up the valley, till I found him lying low, With the gash upon his bosom, and the frown upon his brow-- Till I found him lying murdered where he wooed me long ago. Woman's weakness shall not shame me--why should I have tears to shed? Could I rain them down like water, O my hero! on thy head-- Could the cry of lamentation wake thee from thy silent sleep, Could it set thy heart a-throbbing, it were mine to wail and weep! But I will not waste my sorrow, lest the Campbell women say That the daughters of Clanranald are as weak and frail as they. I had wept thee, hadst thou fallen, like our fathers, on thy shield, When a host of English foemen camped upon a Scottish field. I had mourned thee, hadst thou perished with the foremost of his name, When the valiant and the noble died around the dauntless Græme! But I will not wrong thee, husband, with my unavailing cries, Whilst thy cold and mangled body, stricken by the traitor, lies; Whilst he counts the gold and glory that this hideous night has won, And his heart is big with triumph at the murder he has done. Other eyes than mine shall glisten, other hearts be rent in twain, Ere the heath-bells on thy hillock wither in the autumn rain. Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest, and I'll veil my weary head, Praying for a place beside thee, dearer than my bridal-bed: And I'll give thee tears, my husband, if the tears remain to me, When the widows of the foeman cry the coronach for thee! W. E. Aytoun. CCXXVI. BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly, at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.