But sense foils fury—as the blowing whale Spouts, bleeds, and dyes the waves without avail— Wears out the cable’s length that makes him fast, But, worn himself, comes up harpooned at last— E’en so, devoid of sense, succumbs at length Mere strength of zeal to intellectual strength. His son’s close logic so perplexed his pate, Th’ old hero rather shunned than sought debate; Exhausting his vocabulary’s store Of oaths and nicknames, he could say no more, But tapp’d his mull,[101] rolled mutely in his chair, Or only whistled Killiecrankie’s air. Witch legends Ronald scorned—ghost, kelpie, wraith, And all the trumpery of vulgar faith; Grave matrons ev’n were shocked to hear him slight Authenticated facts of second-sight— Yet never flinched his mockery to confound The brutal superstition reigning round. Reserved himself, still Ronald loved to scan Men’s natures—and he liked th’ old hearty man; So did the partner of his heart and life— _Who_ pleased her Ronald, ne’er displeased his wife. His sense, ’tis true, compared with Norman’s son, Was commonplace—his tales too long outspun: Yet Allan Campbell’s sympathizing mind Had held large intercourse with human kind; Seen much, and gaily, graphically drew The men of every country, clime, and hue; Nor ever stooped, though soldier-like his strain, To ribaldry of mirth or oath profane. All went harmonious till the guest began To talk about his kindred, chief and clan, And, with his own biography engrossed, Marked not the changed demeanour of each host; Nor how old choleric Norman’s cheek became Flushed at the Campbell and Breadalbane name. Assigning, heedless of impending harm, Their stedfast silence to his story’s charm, He touched a subject perilous to touch— Saying, “’Midst this well-known vale I wondered much To lose my way. In boyhood, long ago, I roamed and loved each pathway of Glencoe; Trapped leverets, plucked wild berries on its braes, And fished along its banks long summer days. But times grew stormy—bitter feuds arose, Our clan was merciless to prostrate foes. I never palliated my chieftain’s blame, But mourned the sin, and reddened for the shame Of that foul morn (Heaven blot it from the year!) Whose shapes and shrieks still haunt my dreaming ear. What could I do? a serf—Glenlyon’s page, A soldier sworn at nineteen years of age; T’ have breathed one grieved remonstrance to our chief, The pit or gallows[102] would have cured my grief. Forced, passive as the musket in my hand, I marched—when, feigning royalty’s command, Against the clan Macdonald, Stairs’s lord Sent forth exterminating fire and sword; And troops at midnight through the vale defiled, Enjoined to slaughter woman, man, and child. My clansmen many a year had cause to dread The curse that day entailed upon their head; Glenlyon’s self confessed the avenging spell— I saw it light on him.