12 THE FATE OF MACGREGOR. “ MACGREGOR, Macgregor, remember our foemen; The moon rises broad from the brow of Benlomond, The clans are impatient, and chide thy delay; Arise ! let us bound to Glen-Lyon away. Stern scowl'd the Macgregor, then silent and sullen, He turn'd his red eye to the braes of Strathfillan; Go, Malcolm, to sleep, let the clans be dismissed : The Campbells this night for Macgregor must rest.' “Macgregor, Macgregor, our scouts have been flying, Three days, round the hills of M'Nab and Glen- Lyon ; Of riding and running such tidings they bear, We must meet them at home, else they'll quickly be here."
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