'Perchance if those whom most he loved Would call, thy Oscar might return; Perchance the chief has only roved; For him thy beltane yet may burn. 'Fill high the bowl the table round, We will not claim the pledge by stealth; With wine let every cup be crown'd: Pledge me departed Oscar's health.' 'With all my soul,' old Angus said, And fill'd his goblet to the brim; 'Here's to my boy! alive or dead, I ne'er shall find a son like him.' 'Bravely, old man, this health hath sped; But why does Allan trembling stand? Come, drink remembrance of the dead, And raise thy cup with firmer hand.' The crimson glow of Allan's face Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue; The drops of death each other chase Adown in agonizing dew. Thrice did he raise the goblet high, And thrice his lips refused to taste; For thrice he caught the stranger's eye On his with deadly fury placed. 'And is it thus a brother hails A brother's fond remembrance here; If thus affection's strength prevails, What might we not expect from fear?' Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, 'Would Oscar now could share our mirth!' Internal fear appall'd his soul; He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 'Tis he! I hear my murderer's voice!' Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form; 'A murderer's voice!' the roof replies, And deeply swells the bursting storm. The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink, The stranger's gone--amidst the crew A form was seen in tartan green, And tall the shade terrific grew. His waist was bound with a broad belt round, His plume of sable stream'd on high; But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there And fixed was the glare of his glassy eye. And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, On Angus bending low the knee: And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground, Whom shivering crowds with horror see. The bolts loud roll from pole to pole, The thunders through the welkin ring; And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm, Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. Cold was the feast, the revel ceased, Who lies upon the stony floor? Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast, At length his life-pulse throbs once more. Away! away! let the leech assay To pour the light on Allan's eyes: His sand is done--his race is run; O! never more shall Allan rise: But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, His locks are lifted by the gale: And Allan's barbed arrow lay With him in dark Glentanar's vale. And whence the dreadful stranger came, Or who, no mortal wight can tell; But no one doubts the form of flame, For Alva's sons knew Oscar well.