Volume I Part 1 (2/2)
”A haly auld chiel belaw,” rejoined the sailor, ”that's boune for Eirin.”
”Who----what----how----whom do you call him, friend?”
”I ca' him nae doot Maukeenzie. Pray wha do ye ca' um, your wors.h.i.+p?”
”Is the vessel bound for Ireland?”
”Yea it be, anely frae the gate o' the wind, that says nae to it.”
Occasional squalls of wind now arose, the compa.s.s veered, the wind became adverse; and the storm, or rather hurricane, of the preceding day threatened to return. Under these gloomy presages
”Short time there were for gratulating speech.”
Suddenly sounds like the mournful cadence of the plaintive aeolian harp, were heard above the waves; but no shape, no form, was visible, not even in shadowy indistinctness: but solemn musical sounds, wherever they might have proceeded from, and mocking the human voice, only were heard, sad, slow, and solemn, as the choral chant, _De mortuis_.
THE SPIRIT OF THE STORM.
LOQUITUR.
Where loud tumultuous tempests rave, And foaming surges daunt the brave; I mount my storm-swept throne, the wave!
When midnight fiends their vigils keep, While lightnings rend the mountain's steep, I, scowling, rise from out the deep!
When hope within each bosom dies, While heard the drowning seaman's cries, The raving spirit of the storm, I rise!
Now list! with more than mortal fear, The dismal dirge which strikes the ear!
THE DIRGE.
Once we held fair Scotland's throne, Aye, once we claimed that realm our own; Fuimus, non sumus!
Valorous deeds our claymores crowned, We ever were true heroes found.
Fuimus, non sumus!
But feuds, dissension, strife arose; Oppressed by ranks of hostile foes.
Fuimus, non sumus!
Behold! the last of all our race Is forced to fly his natal place!
He bears the vengeful, fatal knife, Deep stained by b.l.o.o.d.y feudal strife!
Fuimus, non sumus![2]
The chant and dirge were audible to the crew, who listened with deep consternation, and were awfully impressed upon the recollection of the Reverend Chaplain.
[2] For the benefit of our fair readers, we venture to translate the Latin chorus to the Dirge; it means, ”We have been, and are not!”
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