XX.
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Viewing the mountain's ridge askance,The Saxons stood in sullen trance,Till Moray pointed with his lance,And cried: "Behold yon isle!--See! none are left to guard its strandBut women weak, that wring the hand:'Tis there of yore the robber bandTheir booty wont to pile;--My purse, with bonnet-pieces store,To him will swim a bow-shot o'er,And loose a shallop from the shore.Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then,Lords of his mate, and brood, and den."Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung,On earth his casque and corselet rung,He plunged him in the wave:--All saw the deed,--the purpose knew,And to their clamors BenvenueA mingled echo gave;The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer,The helpless females scream for fearAnd yells for rage the mountaineer.'T was then, as by the outcry riven,Poured down at once the lowering heaven:A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast,Her billows reared their snowy crest.Well for the swimmer swelled they high,To mar the Highland marksman's eye;For round him showered, mid rain and hail,The vengeful arrows of the Gael.In vain.--He nears the isle--and lo!His hand is on a shallop's bow.Just then a flash of lightning came,It tinged the waves and strand with flame;I marked Duncraggan's widowed dame,Behind an oak I saw her stand,A naked dirk gleamed in her hand:--It darkened,--but amid the moanOf waves I heard a dying groan;--Another flash!--the spearman floatsA weltering corse beside the boats,And the stern matron o'er him stood,Her hand and dagger streaming blood.
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