Annot, such as we have described her, smiled and blushed, when, on entering the apartment, Lord Menteith came from his place of retirement, and kindly wished her good-morning.

“And good-morning to you, my lord,” returned she, extending her hand to her friend; “we have seldom seen you of late at the castle, and now I fear it is with no peaceful purpose.”

“At least, let me not interrupt your harmony, Annot,” said Lord Menteith, “though my arrival may breed discord elsewhere.  My cousin Allan needs the assistance of your voice and music.”

“My preserver,” said Annot Lyle, “has a right to my poor exertions; and you, too, my lord,—­you, too, are my preserver, and were the most active to save a life that is worthless enough, unless it can benefit my protectors.”

So saying, she sate down at a little distance upon the bench on which Allan M’Aulay was placed, and tuning her clairshach, a small harp, about thirty inches in height, she accompanied it with her voice.  The air was an ancient Gaelic melody, and the words, which were supposed to be very old, were in the same language; but we subjoin a translation of them, by Secundus Macpherson, Esq. of Glenforgen, which, although submitted to the fetters of English rhythm, we trust will be found nearly as genuine as the version of Ossian by his celebrated namesake.

     “Birds of omen dark and foul,
     Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl,
     Leave the sick man to his dream—­
     All night long he heard your scream—­
     Haste to cave and ruin’d tower,
     Ivy, tod, or dingled bower,
     There to wink and mope, for, hark! 
     In the mid air sings the lark.

     “Hie to moorish gills and rocks,
     Prowling wolf and wily fox,—­
     Hie you fast, nor turn your view,
     Though the lamb bleats to the ewe. 
     Couch your trains, and speed your flight,
     Safety parts with parting night;
     And on distant echo borne,
     Comes the hunter’s early horn.

     “The moon’s wan crescent scarcely gleams,
     Ghost-like she fades in morning beams;
     Hie hence each peevish imp and fay,
     That scare the pilgrim on his way:—­
     Quench, kelpy! quench, in bog and fen,
     Thy torch that cheats benighted men;
     Thy dance is o’er, thy reign is done,
     For Benyieglo hath seen the sun.

     “Wild thoughts, that, sinful, dark, and deep,
     O’erpower the passive mind in sleep,
     Pass from the slumberer’s soul away,
     Like night-mists from the brow of day: 
     Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim
     Smothers the pulse, unnerves the limb,
     Spur thy dark palfrey, and begone! 
     Thou darest not face the godlike sun.”