Yet slow he laid his plaid aside, And lingering eyed his lovely bride, Until he saw the starting tear Speak woe he might not stop to cheer:
Then, trusting not a second look, In haste he sped hind up the brook, Nor backward glanced till on the heath Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith,--What in the racer's bosom stirred?
The sickening pang of hope deferred, And memory with a torturing train Of all his morning visions vain.
Mingled with love's impatience, came The manly thirst for martial fame;The stormy joy of mountaineers Ere yet they rush upon the spears;And zeal for Clan and Chieftain burning, And hope, from well-fought field returning, With war's red honors on his crest, To clasp his Mary to his breast.
Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank and brae, Like fire from flint he glanced away, While high resolve and feeling strong Burst into voluntary song.
