'T was all prepared;--and from the rock A goat, the patriarch of the flock, Before the kindling pile was laid, And pierced by Roderick's ready blade.
Patient the sickening victim eyed The life-blood ebb in crimson tide Down his clogged beard and shaggy limb, Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim.
The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer, A slender crosslet framed with care, A cubit's length in measure due;The shaft and limbs were rods of yew, Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave Their shadows o'er Clan-Alpine's grave, And, answering Lomond's breezes deep, Soothe many a chieftain's endless sleep.
The Cross thus formed he held on high, With wasted hand and haggard eye, And strange and mingled feelings woke, While his anathema he spoke:--
