XX.

Is Superstition not display'd

In ev'ry small arrangement made?

The chest unlock'd, to ward the power
Of spells in Mungo's evil hour;

Now he's beyond the reach of pain,

Ere witching time is closed again ;

And Gib, by whom his master well

Each change of weather could foretel,
Imprison'd is, lest any thing

Should make him o'er his master spring.

Now in his long-made grave clothes dress'd,

With many emblems on his breast,

Which in the Yule-light's spreading beam

Makes even death more dismal seem.

XXI.

Among the rest of Mungo's clan

Proceeding to the dusky glen,

With fury glancing in his eye
Comes down the vicious Macinry,
Who like a wolf, when on the hill,
Intoxicated by his still,

Is on the Kingsman keen to prey,
By chance or duty led the way :
He at the Wake will tell to night
How many he has put to flight,
And like a hero from the wars,

Will boast of feats, and show his scars.

XXII.

The weary pedlar, welcome still

A seat by Mungo's fire to fill,
As down the dingle's winding maze
He to his wonted haven strays,
The window light sees in the thatch,
And as he lifts the wooden latch,

To Mungo cries, in well-known strain,
"Here lowland Lamond comes again !"

But ere the hallan he has pass'd,

Pale as the corse he stands aghast ;

Looks o'er the crowd, and views with fear,

The coffin, pall, and blacken'd bier.

XXIII.

Long will the friends his loss bewail,

Low bending round the straightning deal,

With whom, in childhood's cheerful day,
They pass'd the happy hours away,

Oft marking, on the furrow'd strand,
The sea-worm raising ropes of sand,
Or wading in the rushing rill
That drove the busy clacking mill,
Or dancing on the hills by night
Around the heather blazing bright:
But as they view these joys again,
Remembrance turns them into pain.

XXIV.

Though his Coranach cannot tell
Of foes that by his valour fell,

Yet Matron mark'd, in homely strain,
The dead man's actions o'er again:

How he by lore obtain❜d at school,

Each month could count from Rood to Yule;

How by the passing clouds he knew

The point from which the tempest blew ;

Had names to stars, and, what was strange, Could tell the week the moon would change;

And if he heard a story plain,

The half he could repeat again;

And could, at pleasure, scamper o'er,

Steps, reels, and jigs, ne'er seen before.

XXV.

When glittering icicles appear'd,

Like diamonds in the wild goat's beard,
Each little bird, with hunger tame,
That chirping round the cabin came,
How fond was Mungo to ensnare,
With hoop and gin of twisted hair,
That Mona might enjoy the notes,
Twined in the little pris'ners throats!
For even then, her cheek, her eye,
Her make, her mien, was Mungo's joy.

XXVI.

How feeble is the sight of man,

When he futurity would scan !

Did any think, when on the strand

They houses made among the sand,
Bedeck'd with shells, and pav'd with stones,

And seated round with slates and bones,
It was a prelude of the fate

That on their future years did wait?

Or that their mimic toil and care,
Anent their wooden family there,

And even the tears that Mona shed,
When Mungo feign'd or sick or dead,
Would all be realiz'd, to prove

That sorrow follows joy and love?

XXVII.

My cheek is bleach'd, my hair is grey,
By years that since have pass'd away,
Yet still I think I Mungo see,

The sunk rock seeking to the knee,
With sickle in the ebbing tide,

The weed to sever from its side;

And as ascending from the beach,
Smoke wreaths the middle region reach,

Sweet Mona still, with active hand,
Rakes up the wreck along the strand;
Bright glows her cheek, as she with speed
Gives to the flame the crackling weed,

Or piles, before the day is o'er,

The kelp in cairns along the shore.