Curſe on my ſkill!—What have I done!
Raſh man!—But thou would have it:
You have forc’d a friend to take thy life,
who would have bled to ſave it.
Why ſhould I mourn for this ſad deed,
ſince now it can’t be mended?
My happineſs, that ſeem’d ſo nigh,
by one raſh ſtroke I’ve ended.
An exile unto ſome ſtrange land,
to fly I know not whether!
I muſt not ſee my lovely Ann,
ſince I have ſlain her brother!
But caſting round his mournful eyes,
to ſee if none was nigh them;
There he eſpy’d the young Glengyle,
who like the wind came flying.
I’m come too late to ſtop the ſtrife,
but ſince thou art victorious.
I’ll be reveng’d or loſe my life;
my honour bids me do this.
I know your bravery young Glengyle,
tho’ of life I am regardleſs.
Why am I forc’d my friends to kill?
See, brave M‘Van lies breathleſs.
Unhappy lad, put up thy blade,
tempt me no more I pray thee;
This ſword that pierc’d the Squire ſo rude,
ſoon in the duſt will lay thee.
