4
Is there no arm on high to save
From foulest death the trustful brave!
Each by his threshold found a grave,
Or where he slumber'd fell!
Red rose the sun o'er lone Glencoe;
What eye shall mark that crimson'd snow,
What ear shall list the torrent's flow
Dashing the dreary wild.
Round sheal and hamlet's shelt'ring rock
High soars destruction's volum'd smoke,
But hush'd the shriek which maddening broke
From mother, maiden, child.
All's still!-save round yon mountain's head,
Where men of blood the snow-path tread,
Startling lest voices from the dead
A deed of hell proclaim.
Wo for thy clan, thou wild Glencoe!
Whose blood dyes deep the mountain snow
But deadlier bale, and deeper wo,
Glenorchy, on thy name.
M A G G I E.
First when Maggy was my care,
Heav'n, I thought, was in her air;
Now we're married-speir na mair-
Whistle o'er the lave o’t,
