“It so befell:— A soldier from our ranks to death was brought, By sentence deemed too dreadful for his fault; All was prepared—the coffin and the cart Stood near twelve muskets, levelled at his heart. The chief, whose breast for ruth had still some room, Obtained reprieve a day before his doom;— But of the awarded boon surmised no breath. The sufferer knelt, blindfolded, waiting death,— And met it. Though Glenlyon had desired The musketeers to watch before they fired; If from his pocket they should see he drew A handkerchief—their volley should ensue; But if he held a paper in its place, It should be hailed the sign of pardoning grace:— He, in a fatal moment’s absent fit, Drew forth the handkerchief, and not the writ; Wept o’er the corpse, and wrung his hands in woe, Crying ‘Here’s thy curse again—Glencoe! Glencoe!’” Though thus his guest spoke feelings just and clear, The cabin’s patriarch lent impatient ear; Wroth that, beneath his roof, a living man Should boast the swine-blood of the Campbell clan, He hastened to the door—called out his son To follow; walked a space, and thus begun:— “You have not, Ronald, at this day to learn The oath I took beside my father’s cairn, When you were but a babe a twelvemonth born; Sworn on my dirk—by all that’s sacred, sworn To be revenged for blood that cries to Heaven— Blood unforgiveable, and unforgiven: But never power, _since then_, have I possessed To plant my dagger in a Campbell’s breast. Now, here’s a self-accusing partisan, Steeped in the slaughter of Macdonald’s clan; I scorn his civil speech and sweet-lipped show Of pity—he is still our house’s foe: I’ll perjure not myself—but sacrifice The caitiff ere to-morrow’s sun arise. Stand! hear me—you’re my son, the deed is just; And if I say—it must be done—it must: A debt of honour which my clansmen crave, Their very dead demand it from the grave.” Conjuring then their ghosts, he humbly prayed Their patience till the blood-debt should be paid.