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! Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kinntail, Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale! May the race of Clan Gillean, the fearless and free, Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee! Let the clan of grey Fingon, whose offspring has given Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven, Unite with the race of renowned Rorri More, To launch the long galley, and stretch to the oar.
How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display The ewe-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey! How the race of wronged Alpine and murdered Glencoe Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe! Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar, Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More! Mac-Neil of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake, For honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake! Here a large greyhound, bounding up the glen, jumped upon Flora, and interrupted her music by his importunate caresses.

At a distant whistle, he turned, and shot down the path again with the rapidity of an arrow.
'That is Fergus's faithful attendant, Captain Waverley, and that was his signal.

He likes no poetry but what is humorous, and comes in good time to interrupt my long catalogue of the tribes, whom one of your saucy English poets calls Our bootless host of high-born beggars, Mac-Leans, Mac-Kenzies, and Mac-Gregors.' Waverley expressed his regret at the interruption.
'Oh, you cannot guess how much you have lost! The bard, as in duty bound, has addressed three long stanzas to Vich Ian Vohr of the Banners, enumerating all his great properties, and not forgetting his being a cheerer of the harper and bard,--"a giver of bounteous gifts." Besides, you should have heard a practical admonition to the fair-haired son of the stranger, who lives in the land where the grass is always green--the rider on the shining pampered steed, whose hue is like the raven, and whose neigh is like the scream of the eagle for battle.