'I well believe,' the maid replied, As her light skiff approached the side,--'I well believe, that ne'er before Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore But yet, as far as yesternight, Old Allan-bane foretold your plight,--A gray -haired sire, whose eye intent Was on the visioned future bent.
He saw your steed, a dappled gray, Lie dead beneath the birchen way;Painted exact your form and mien, Your hunting-suit of Lincoln green, That tasselled horn so gayly gilt, That falchion's crooked blade and hilt, That cap with heron plumage trim, And yon two hounds so dark and grim.
He bade that all should ready be To grace a guest of fair degree;But light I held his prophecy, And deemed it was my father's horn Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne.'
