'Now westward rolls the battle's din, That deep and doubling pass within.--Minstrel, away! the work of fate Is bearing on; its issue wait, Where the rude Trosachs' dread defile Opens on Katrine's lake and isle.
Gray Benvenue I soon repassed, Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast.
The sun is set;--the clouds are met, The lowering scowl of heaven An inky hue of livid blue To the deep lake has given;Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen Swept o'er the lake, then sunk again.
I heeded not the eddying surge, Mine eye but saw the Trosachs' gorge, Mine ear but heard that sullen sound, Which like an earthquake shook the ground, And spoke the stern and desperate strife That parts not but with parting life, Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll The dirge of many a passing soul.
Nearer it comes--the dim-wood glen The martial flood disgorged again, But not in mingled tide;The plaided warriors of the North High on the mountain thunder forth And overhang its side, While by the lake below appears The darkening cloud of Saxon spears.
At weary bay each shattered band, Eying their foemen, sternly stand;Their banners stream like tattered sail, That flings its fragments to the gale, And broken arms and disarray Marked the fell havoc of the day.
