Nine men did Glenlyon slay, nine of the true hearts!
His own host he slew, the laird of Inverriggen.
Fifty they slew--the rest fled to the mountains.
In the deep snow the women and children
Fell down and slept, nor awoke in the morning.
The bard of the glen, alone among strangers,
Allister, bard of the glen and the mountain,
Sings peace to the ghost of his father's father,
Slain by the curse of Glenco, Glenlyon.
Curse on Glenlyon! His wife's fair bosom
Dry up with weeping the fates of her children!
Curse on Glenlyon! Each drop of his heart's blood
Turn to red fire and hum through his arteries!
The pale murdered faces haunt him to madness!
The shrieks of the ghosts from the mists of Glenco
Ring in his ears through the caves of perdition!
Man, woman, and child, to the last born Campbell,
Rush howling to hell, and fall cursing Glenlyon--
The liar who drank with his host and then slew him!
While he chanted, the whole being of the bard seemed to pour itself
out in the feeble and quavering tones that issued from his withered
throat. His voice grew in energy for a while as he proceeded, but
at last gave way utterly under the fervour of imprecation, and ceased.
Then, as if in an agony of foiled hate, he sent from chanter and
drone a perfect screech of execration, with which the instrument
dropped from his hands, and he fell back in his chair, speechless.
Lady Florimel started to her feet, and stood trembling for a moment,
hesitating whether to run from the cottage and call for help, or
do what she might for the old man herself.
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