4
Till, mad at being sore abused,
A furious push he darted,
Which pierced the brains of bold M'Van,
Who with a groan departed.
Curse on my skill!—what have I done?
Rash man!—but thou would have it:
You have forced 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 seemed so nigh,
By one rash stroke is ended.
An exile into some strange land,
To fly I know not whither,
I must not see my lovely Ann,
Since I have slain her brother?
But casting round his mournful eyes,
To see if none were nigh them,
There he espied 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 revenged, or lose my life,
My honour bids me do this.
I know your bravery, young Glengyle,
Though of life I am now regardless,
Why am I forced my friends to kill,
See, brave M'Van lies breathless.
