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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 . . .

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