III.

When Ossian from Knockfarrel went, a band

Of merry maidens, trooping hand in hand,

Came forth, with laughing eyes and flowing hair,

To share the freedom of the morning air;

Adown the steep they went, and through the wood

Where Garry splintered logs in sullen mood —

Pining to join the chase! His wrath he wrought

Upon the trees that morn, as if he fought

Against a hundred foemen from the west,

Till he grew weary, and was fain to rest.

The maids were wont to shower upon his head

Their merry taunts, and oft from them he fled;

For of their quips and jests he had more fear

Than e'er he felt before a foeman's spear —

And so he chose to be alone.

The air

Was heavily laden with the odour rare

Of deep, wind-shaken fir trees, breathing sweet,

As through the wood, the maids, with silent feet,

Went treading needled sward, in light and shade,

Now bright, now dim, like flow'rs that gleam and fade,

And ever bloom and ever pass away...

Upon a fairy hillock Garry lay

In sunshine fast asleep: his head was bare,

And the wind rippling through his golden hair

Laid out the seven locks that were his pride,

Which one by one the maids securely tied

To tether-pins, while Garry, breathing deep,

Moaned low, and moved about in troubled sleep

Then to a thicket all the maidens crept,

And raised the Call of Warning... Garry leapt

From dreams that boded ill, with sudden fear

That a fierce band of foemen had come near —

The seven fetters of his golden hair

He wrenched off as he leapt, and so laid bare

A shredded scalp of ruddy wounds that bled

With bitter agony... The maidens fled

With laughter through the wood, and climb'd the path

Of steep Knockfarrel. Fierce was Garry's wrath

When he perceived who wronged him. With a shriek

That raised the eagles from the mountain peak,

He shook his spear, and ran with stumbling feet,

And sought for vengeance, speedy and complete —

The lust of blood possessed him, and he swore

To slay them.... But they shut the oaken door

Ere he had reached that high and strong stockade —

From whence, alas! nor wife, nor child, nor maid

Came forth again.