True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel,

    Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel!

    Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell,

    Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell!

    Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail,

    Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale!

    May the race of Clan Gillean, the fearless and free,

    Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee!

    Let the clan of grey Fingon, whose offspring has given

    Such heroes to earth and such martyrs to heaven,

    Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri More,

    To launch the long galley and stretch to the oar.

    How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display

    The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey!

    How the race of wrong'd Alpine and murder'd Glencoe

    Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe!

    Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar,

    Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More!

    Mac-Neil of the islands, and Moy of the Lake,

    For honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake!

Here a large greyhound, bounding up the glen, jumped upon Flora and interrupted her music by his importunate caresses. At a distant whistle he turned and shot down the path again with the rapidity of an arrow. 'That is Fergus's faithful attendant, Captain Waverley, and that was his signal. He likes no poetry but what is humorous, and comes in good time to interrupt my long catalogue of the tribes, whom one of your saucy English poets calls

    Our bootless host of high-born beggars,

    Mac-Leans, Mac-Kenzies, and Mac-Gregors.'

Waverley expressed his regret at the interruption.

'O you cannot guess how much you have lost! The bard, as in duty bound, has addressed three long stanzas to Vich Ian Vohr of the Banners, enumerating all his great properties, and not forgetting his being a cheerer of the harper and bard—“a giver of bounteous gifts.” Besides, you should have heard a practical admonition to the fair-haired son of the stranger, who lives in the land where the grass is always green—the rider on the shining pampered steed, whose hue is like the raven, and whose neigh is like the scream of the eagle for battle. This valiant horseman is affectionately conjured to remember that his ancestors were distinguished by their loyalty as well as by their courage. All this you have lost; but, since your curiosity is not satisfied, I judge, from the distant sound of my brother's whistle, I may have time to sing the concluding stanzas before he comes to laugh at my translation.'

    Awake on your hills, on your islands awake,

    Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake!

    'T is the bugle—but not for the chase is the call;

    'T is the pibroch's shrill summons—but not to the hall.

    'T is the summons of heroes for conquest or death,

    When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath: