“That piper is nameless, and lost in like manner The tribes are forgotten of mighty Clan Quhele; While Chattan that bears the hill-cat on his banner, No time can extinguish, no ruin assail. “From the hand of a cloud-cleaving bard thou wert given To lips that embraced thee till nerveless and dead; Since then never idly Mac Pherson hath striven, Nor trust in his fortune been shaken by dread. “O mouth-piece of conquest! who heard thee and trembled? Who followed thy call, and despaired of the fight? Availed not that foemen before thee dissembled, For quenched was their ardour and nerveless their might. “The blast of thy pibroch, the plaint of thy streamer, Lent hope to each spirit and strength to each arm; While the Saxon confronting was scared like the dreamer Whose sleep is of peril, of grief, and alarm. “Led on by thy promise, what chieftain e’er sallied Nor proved in the venture how just was thy vaunt? At the spell of thy summons exultingly rallied The faltering pulse of dispirited Grant. “Forerunner of victory! Why didst thou tarry? Thy voice on Drummossie an empire had changed; We then had not seen our last efforts miscarry, The Stuart had triumphed, the Gael been avenged. “Ah, fatal Drummossie—sad field of the flying! The Gathering sank in the hopeless Lament; What pibroch could stanch the wide wounds of the dying? What magic rekindle the fire that was spent? “Proud music, by shame or dishonour ne’er daunted, By murmur of orphan, by widowed despair, The fall of thy country thy spell disenchanted, With the last of the Stuarts it vanished in air! “Yet rouse thee from slumber, Black Chanter of Chattan, Send forth a strong blast of defiance once more; On the flesh of thy children the vulture doth fatten, And sodden with blood are the sands of Lahore. “As fierce as the tiger that prowls in their forest, Those sons of the Orient leap to the plain; But the blade striketh vainly wherever thou wanest, Black Chanter of Chattan bestir thee again!” CHAPTER XVI. PIPERS AND FAIRIES. “The green hill cleaves, and forth with a bound Comes elf and elfin steed; The moon dives down in a golden cloud, The stars grow dim with dread; But a light is running along the earth, So of heaven’s they have no need. O’er moor and moss with a shout they pass, And the word is spur and speed— But the fire maun burn, and I maun quake, And the hour is gone that will never come back.” —_Allan Cunningham._