'Blithe were it then to wander here!

But now--beshrew yon nimble deer--

Like that same hermit's, thin and spare, The copse must give my evening fare;Some mossy bank my couch must be, Some rustling oak my canopy.

Yet pass we that; the war and chase Give little choice of resting-place;--A summer night in greenwood spent Were but to-morrow's merriment:

But hosts may in these wilds abound, Such as are better missed than found;To meet with Highland plunderers here Were worse than loss of steed or deer.--I am alone;--my bugle-strain May call some straggler of the train;Or, fall the worst that may betide, Ere now this falchion has been tried.'