The war-pipes ceased, but lake and hill Were busy with their echoes still;And, when they slept, a vocal strain Bade their hoarse chorus wake again, While loud a hundred clansmen raise Their voices in their Chieftain's praise.

Each boatman, bending to his oar, With measured sweep the burden bore, In such wild cadence as the breeze Makes through December's leafless trees.

The chorus first could Allan know, 'Roderick Vich Alpine, ho! fro!'

And near, and nearer as they rowed, Distinct the martial ditty flowed.