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<T THE COVENANTER'S FATE> <D 1799> <P 696> And ne'er but once, my son, he says, Was yon sad cavern trod, - In persecution's iron days, When the land was left by God. From Bewlie bog, with slaughter red, A wanderer hither drew, And oft he stopt and turn'd his head, As by fits the night wind blew; For trampling round by Cheviot edge Were heard the troopers keen, And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge The death-shot flash'd between. The moonbeams through the misty shower On yon dark cavern fell; Through the cloudy night the snow gleam'd white, Which sunbeam ne'er could quell. 'Yon cavern dark is rough and rude, And cold its jaws of snow; But more rough and rude are the men of blood, That hunt my life below] 'Yon spell-bound den, as the aged tell, Was hewn by demon's hands; But I had lourd melle with the fiends of hell Than with Clavers and his band.' He heard the deep-mouth'd blood-hound bark, He heard the horses neigh, He plunged him in the cavern dark, And downward sped his way. No . . .
