Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

XIX

Boat Song

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!

Honored and blessed be the evergreen Pine!

Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,

Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!

Heaven send it happy dew,

Earth lend it sap anew,

Gayly to bourgeon and broadly to grow,

While every Highland glen

Sends our shout back again,

‘Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!’

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,

Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;

When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain,

The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.

Moored in the rifted rock,

Proof to the tempest’s shock,

Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;

Menteith and Breadalbane, then,

Echo his praise again,

‘Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!’

XX

Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin,

And Bannochar’s groans to our slogan replied;

Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,

And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side.

Widow and Saxon maid

Long shall lament our raid,

Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;

Lennox and Leven-glen

Shake when they hear again,

‘Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!’

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!

Stretch to your oars for the evergreen Pine!

O that the rosebud that graces yon islands

Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!

O that some seedling gem,

Worthy such noble stem,

Honored and blessed in their shadow might grow!

Loud should Clan-Alpine then

Ring from her deepmost glen,

Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!’

XXI

With all her joyful female band

Had Lady Margaret sought the strand.

Loose on the breeze their tresses flew,

And high their snowy arms they threw,

As echoing back with shrill acclaim,

And chorus wild, the Chieftain’s name;

While, prompt to please, with mother’s art

The darling passion of his heart,

The Dame called Ellen to the strand,

To greet her kinsman ere he land:

‘Come, loiterer, come! a Douglas thou,

And shun to wreathe a victor’s brow?’

Reluctantly and slow, the maid

The unwelcome summoning obeyed,

And when a distant bugle rung,

In the mid-path aside she sprung:—

‘List, Allan-bane! From mainland cast

I hear my father’s signal blast.

Be ours,’ she cried, ‘the skiff to guide,

And waft him from the mountainside.’

Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright,

She darted to her shallop light,

And, eagerly while Roderick scanned,

For her dear form, his mother’s band,

The islet far behind her lay,

And she had landed in the bay.

XXII

Some feelings are to mortals given

With less of earth in them than heaven;

And if there be a human tear

From passion’s dross refined and clear,

A tear so limpid and so meek

It would not stain an angel’s cheek,

‘Tis that which pious fathers shed

Upon a duteous daughter’s head!

And as the Douglas to his breast

His darling Ellen closely pressed,

Such holy drops her tresses steeped,

Though ‘t was an hero’s eye that weeped.

Nor while on Ellen’s faltering tongue

Her filial welcomes crowded hung,

Marked she that fear—affection’s proof—

Still held a graceful youth aloof;

No! not till Douglas named his name,

Although the youth was Malcolm Graeme.

XXIII

Allan, with wistful look the while,

Marked Roderick landing on the isle;

His master piteously he eyed,

Then gazed upon the Chieftain’s pride,

Then dashed with hasty hand away

From his dimmed eye the gathering spray;

And Douglas, as his hand he laid

On Malcolm’s shoulder, kindly said:

‘Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spy

In my poor follower’s glistening eye?

I ‘ll tell thee:—he recalls the day

When in my praise he led the lay

O’er the arched gate of Bothwell proud,

While many a minstrel answered loud,

When Percy’s Norman pennon, won

In bloody field, before me shone,

And twice ten knights, the least a name

As mighty as yon Chief may claim,

Gracing my pomp, behind me came.

Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud

Was I of all that marshalled crowd,

Though the waned crescent owned my might,

And in my train trooped lord and knight,

Though Blantyre hymned her holiest lays,

And Bothwell’s bards flung back my praise,

As when this old man’s silent tear,

And this poor maid’s affection dear,

A welcome give more kind and true

Than aught my better fortunes knew.

Forgive, my friend, a father’s boast,—

O, it out-beggars all I lost!’

XXIV

Delightful praise!—like summer rose,

That brighter in the dewdrop glows,

The bashful maiden’s cheek appeared,

For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard.

The flush of shamefaced joy to hide,

The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide;

The loved caresses of the maid

The dogs with crouch and whimper paid;

And, at her whistle, on her hand

The falcon took his favorite stand,

Closed his dark wing, relaxed his eye,

Nor, though unhooded, sought to fly.

And, trust, while in such guise she stood,

Like fabled Goddess of the wood,

That if a father’s partial thought

O’erweighed her worth and beauty aught,

Well might the lover’s judgment fail

To balance with a juster scale;

For with each secret glance he stole,

The fond enthusiast sent his soul.

XXV

Of stature fair, and slender frame,

But firmly knit, was Malcolm Graeme.

The belted plaid and tartan hose

Did ne’er more graceful limbs disclose;

His flaxen hair, of sunny hue,

Curled closely round his bonnet blue.

Trained to the chase, his eagle eye

The ptarmigan in snow could spy;

Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath,

He knew, through Lennox and Menteith;

Vain was the bound of dark-brown doe

When Malcolm bent his sounding bow,

And scarce that doe, though winged with fear,

Outstripped in speed the mountaineer:

Right up Ben Lomond could he press,

And not a sob his toil confess.

His form accorded with a mind

Lively and ardent, frank and kind;

A blither heart, till Ellen came

Did never love nor sorrow tame;

It danced as lightsome in his breast

As played the feather on his crest.

Yet friends, who nearest knew the youth

His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth

And bards, who saw his features bold

When kindled by the tales of old

Said, were that youth to manhood grown,

Not long should Roderick Dhu’s renown

Be foremost voiced by mountain fame,

But quail to that of Malcolm Graeme.

XXVI

Now back they wend their watery way,

And, ‘O my sire!’ did Ellen say,

‘Why urge thy chase so far astray?

And why so late returned? And why ‘—

The rest was in her speaking eye.

‘My child, the chase I follow far,

‘Tis mimicry of noble war;

And with that gallant pastime reft

Were all of Douglas I have left.

I met young Malcolm as I strayed

Far eastward, in Glenfinlas’ shade

Nor strayed I safe, for all around

Hunters and horsemen scoured the ground.

This youth, though still a royal ward,

Risked life and land to be my guard,