Flora had exchanged the measured and monotonous recitative of the bard for a lofty and uncommon Highland air, which had been a battle-song in former ages.  A few irregular strains introduced a prelude of a wild and peculiar tone, which harmonized well with the distant waterfall, and the soft sigh of the evening breeze in the rustling leaves of an aspen which overhung the seat of the fair harpress.  The following verses convey but little idea of the feelings with which, so sung and accompanied, they were heard by Waverley:—­

     There is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale,
     But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael. 
     A stranger commanded—­it sunk on the land;
     It has frozen each heart, and benumbed every hand!

     The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust;
     The bloodless claymore is but reddened with rust;
     On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
     It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.

     The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse,
     Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse! 
     Be mute every string, and be hushed every tone,
     That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown!

     But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past;
     The morn on our mountains is dawning at last;
     Glenaladale’s peaks are illumed with the rays,
     And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.

[The young and daring adventurer, Charles Edward, landed at Glenaladale, in Moidart, and displayed his standard in the valley of Glenfinnan, mustering around it the Mac-Donalds, the Camerons, and other less numerous clans, whom he had prevailed on to join him.  There is a monument erected on the spot, with a Latin inscription by the late Dr. Gregory.]

     O high-minded Moray!—­the exiled—­the dear!—­
     In the blush of the dawning the standard uprear! 
     Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly,
     Like the sun’s latest flash when the tempest is nigh!

     [The Marquis of Tullibardine’s elder brother, who, long exiled,
     returned to Scotland with Charles Edward in 1745]

     Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break,
     Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake? 
     That dawn never beamed on your forefathers’ eye,
     But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.

     O! sprung from the kings who in Islay kept state,
     Proud chiefs of Clan Ranald, Glengarry, and Sleat! 
     Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow,
     And resistless in union rush down on the foe!

     True son of Sir Even, undaunted Lochiel,
     Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel! 
     Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle’s bold swell,
     Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell!