All in the Trosachs' glen was still, Noontide was sleeping on the hill:
Sudden his guide whooped loud and high--
'Murdoch! was that a signal cry? '--
He stammered forth, 'I shout to scare Yon raven from his dainty fare.'
He looked--he knew the raven's prey, His own brave steed: 'Ah! gallant gray!
For thee--for me, perchance--'t were well We ne'er had seen the Trosachs' dell.--Murdoch, move first---but silently;
Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die!'
Jealous and sullen on they fared, Each silent, each upon his guard.
