Benighted thus our pilgrim groped his ground, Half ’twixt the river’s and the cataract’s sound. At last a sheep-dog’s bark informed his ear Some human habitation might be near; Anon sheep-bleatings rose from rock to rock,— ’Twas Luath hounding to their fold the flock. Ere long the cock’s obstreperous clarion rang, And next, a maid’s sweet voice, that spinning sang: At last amidst the greensward (gladsome sight!) A cottage stood, with straw roof golden bright. He knocked, was welcomed in; none asked his name, Nor whither he was bound, nor whence he came; But he was beckoned to the stranger’s seat, Right side the chimney fire of blazing peat. Blest Hospitality makes not her home In wallèd parks and castellated dome; She flies the city’s needy greedy crowd, And shuns still more the mansions of the proud;— The balm of savage or of simple life, A wild flower cut by culture’s polished knife! The house, no common sordid shieling cot, Spoke inmates of a comfortable lot. The Jacobite white rose festooned their door; The windows sashed and glazed, the oaken floor, The chimney graced with antlers of the deer, The rafters hung with meat for winter cheer, And all the mansion indicated plain Its master a superior shepherd swain. Their supper came—the table soon was spread With eggs and milk and cheese and barley bread. The family were three—a father hoar, Whose age you’d guess at seventy years or more, His son looked fifty—cheerful like her lord, His comely wife presided at the board; All three had that peculiar courteous grace Which marks the meanest of the Highland race; Warm hearts that burn alike in weal and woe, As if the north wind fanned their bosoms’ glow! But wide unlike their souls: old Norman’s eye Was proudly savage ev’n in courtesy. His sinewy shoulders—each, though aged and lean, Broad as the curled Herculean head between, His scornful lip, his eyes of yellow fire, And nostrils that dilated quick with ire. With ever downward-slanting shaggy brows, Marked the old lion you would dread to rouse. Norman, in truth, had led his earlier life In raids of red revenge and feudal strife; Religious duty in revenge he saw, Proud Honour’s right and Nature’s honest law. First in the charge and foremost in pursuit, Long-breathed, deep-chested, and in speed of foot A match for stags—still fleeter when the prey Was man, in persecution’s evil day; Cheered to that chase by brutal bold Dundee, No Highland hound had lapped more blood than he. Oft had he changed the covenanter’s breath From howls of psalmody to howls of death: And though long bound to peace, it irked him still His dirk had ne’er one hated foe to kill.