But the dread of banditti, some strength it restored;
And again she the aid of the Virgin implored;
She dragg'd her slow steps to where corses, yet warm,
Threw their tatters and fresh mangled limbs to the storm :
She reach'd the fell spot, and, aghast, looking round,
At a black gibbet's foot senseless sunk on the ground.
Now the battle was over, and o'er his proud foes
The Austrian eagle triumphantly rose ;
Midst the groans of the dying, and blood of the slain,
Sorely wounded lay Leopold, stretch'd on the plain.
When reviving, he first to look round him began,
Lo! close by his side sat a Little Grey Man!
The Little Grey Man he sat munching a heart, And he growl'd in a tone all dismaying-" Depart! "Don't disturb me at meals! pr'ythee rise, and pass on!
"To Mary-Ann hie!-bind your wounds, and begone!— "In a score and three days shall you meet Mary-Ann;
"And perhaps, uninvited, the Little Grey Man.”—
With fear and dismay rose the youth from the ground,
His wounds he with balms and with bandages bound;
To quit his grim guest he made little delay,
And, faint though he was, he sped willing away :
For a score and three days did he journey amain,
Then sunk, all exhausted, on Sombermond's plain.
By the screams of the night-bird, though dark, he could tell
'Twas the gibbets amongst, and the wheels, where he fell.—
Now still her sad station did Mary-Ann keep,
Where Leopold, fainting, had sunk into sleep:
Ah! little thought he that his dear one was by!
Ah! little the maid that her love was so
Perch'd grim on a wheel sat the Little Grey Man,
Whilst his fierce little eyes o'er the sad lovers ran;
The Little Grey Man down to Leopold crept,
And open'd his wounds, all so deep, as he slept ;
With a scream he the slumbers of Mary-Ann broke,
And the poor forlorn maid to new horrors awoke.
To her sight, sorely shock'd, did a moon-beam display
Her lover, all bleeding and pale as he lay :
She shriek'd a loud shriek; and she tore her fine hair,
And she sunk her soft cheek on his bosom so fair;
With her long flowing tresses she strove to restrain,
And stop the dear blood that now issued amain.
To his wounds her fair hands she unceasingly press'd;
Her tears fast they fell on her Leopold's breast:
Entranced, and in slumber still silent he lay,
Till the Little Grey Man drove his slumbers
With a vision all horrid his senses betray'd,
And fatal to him and his much-beloved maid.
He dreamt, from his wheel an assassin had stepp'd,
And silent and slowly had close to him crept;
That the wretch, mangled piece-meal, and ghastly with gore,
From his wounds both the balms and the bandages tore;
And to search for his dagger as now he began,
"Strike! strike!" cried the voice of the Little Grey Man.
"Strike! strike!" cried the fiend, "orvour wounds bleed anew!"
He struck-it was Mary-Ann's life-blood he drew—
With a shrick he awoke, no his woes were they o'er ;
Heicheld his pal love, to behold her no more !—
eyes the poor maiden on Leopold cast,
Gave him one look of love, 'twas her fondest, her last!
The Little Grey Man now he set up a yell,
Which was heard in the halls of fair Aix-la-Chapelle,
He raised up his head, and he raised up his chin;
And he grinn'd, as he shouted a horrible grin ;
And he laugh'd a loud laugh, and his cap up he
Exulting, as breathed the fond lovers their last,
As in each other's arms dead the fond lovers fell,
O'er the black lonely heath toll'd a low, distant bell;
From the gibbets and crosses shrieks issued, and groans,
And wild to the blast flew the sculls and the bones;
Whilst the Little Grey Man, midst a shower of blood,
In a whirlwind was hurl'd into Sombermond's wood,
Of Mary-Ann's sorrows, and Leopold's woes,
Long shall Maise's dark stream tell the tale as it flows:
Long, long shall the gossips of Aix-la-Chapelle,
Of the heath and its horrors, the traveller tell;
Who shall prick on his steed with what swiftness he can, Lest he meet in the twilight the Little Grey Man.
On the Feast of St. Austin, to Sombermond's fair
Flock the youth of both sexes, its revels to share;
And in dainty apparel, all gallant and gay,
With dance, and with carols, and mirth, cheer the day;
While the proud castle's portal expanded, invites
To the hall's ample board, and its festive delights:
And there, on the richly-wrought arms, they view
Depicted, the woes of these lovers so true;
The troubles their sorrowful days that befel,
And the fate of the darling of Aix-la-Chapelle ;
Behold, as she bloom'd, the beloved Mary-Ann,
And the heart-freezing scowl of the Little Grey Man,
"For them the viewless forms of air obey,
"Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair:
They know what spirit brews the stormful day,
"And heartless oft, like moody madness, stare
"To see the phantom train their secret work prepare."
Glenfinlas is a tract of forest ground lying in the Highlands of Perthshire, not far from Callender, in Menteith. To the west of the forest of Glenfinlas lies Loch Katrine, and its romantic avenue, called the Troshachs. Benledi, Benmore, and Benvoirlich, are mountains in the same district, and at no great distance from Glenfinlas. The river Teith passes Callender and the castle of Doune, and joins the Forth near Stirling. The Pass of Lenny is immediately above Callender, and is the principal access to the Highlands, from that town. Glenartney is a forest near Benvoirlich. The whole forms a sublime tract of Alpine scenery.
O HONE a rie! O hone a rie!
The pride of Albin's line is o'er,
And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree,—
We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!
*Coronach is the lamentation for a deceased warrior, sung by the aged of the clan. O hone a rie signifies-" Alas for the prince or chief."
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