All in the Trosachs' glen was still,
Noontide was sleeping on the hill:
Sudden his guide whooped loud and high--
'Murdoch! was that a signal cry?'--
He stammered forth, 'I shout to scare
Yon raven from his dainty fare.'
He looked--he knew the raven's prey,
His own brave steed: 'Ah! gallant gray!
For thee--for me, perchance--'t were well
We ne'er had seen the Trosachs' dell.--
Murdoch, move first---but silently;
Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die!'
Jealous and sullen on they fared,
Each silent, each upon his guard.
