Doubtless he was translating as he went on.
His chanter all the time kept up a low pitiful accompaniment, his
voice only giving expression to the hate and execration of the
song.
Black rise the hills round the vale of Glenco;
Hard rise its rocks up the sides of the sky;
Cold fall the streams from the snow on their summits;
Bitter are the winds that search for the wanderer;
False are the vapours that trail o'er the correi
Blacker than caverns that hollow the mountain,
Harder than crystals in the rock's bosom
Colder than ice borne down in the torrents,
More bitter than hail windswept o'er the correi,
Falser than vapours that hide the dark precipice,
Is the heart of the Campbell, the hell hound Glenlyon.
Is it blood that is streaming down into the valley?
Ha! 'tis the red coated blood hounds of Orange.
To hunt the red deer, is this a fit season?
Glenlyon, said Ian, the son of the chieftain:
What seek ye with guns and with gillies so many?
Friends, a warm fire, good cheer, and a drink,
Said the liar of hell, with the death in his heart.
Come home to my house--it is poor, but your own.
Cheese of the goat, and flesh of black cattle,
And dew of the mountain to make their hearts joyful,
They gave them in plenty, they gave them with welcome;
And they slept on the heather, and skins of the red deer.
Och hone for the chief! God's curse on the traitors!
Och hone for the chief--the father of his people!
He is struck through the brain, and not in the battle!
Och hone for his lady! the teeth of the badgers
Have torn the bright rings from her slender fingers!
They have stripped her and shamed her in sight of her clansmen!
They have sent out her ghost to cry after her husband.
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