"At least, let me not interrupt your harmony, Annot," said Lord
Menteith, "though my arrival may breed discord elsewhere. My cousin
Allan needs the assistance of your voice and music."

"My preserver," said Annot Lyle, "has a right to my poor exertions; and
you, too, my lord,--you, too, are my preserver, and were the most
active to save a life that is worthless enough, unless it can benefit my
protectors."

So saying, she sate down at a little distance upon the bench on which
Allan M'Aulay was placed, and tuning her clairshach, a small harp, about
thirty inches in height, she accompanied it with her voice. The air was
an ancient Gaelic melody, and the words, which were supposed to be very
old, were in the same language; but we subjoin a translation of them,
by Secundus Macpherson, Esq. of Glenforgen, which, although submitted to
the fetters of English rhythm, we trust will be found nearly as genuine
as the version of Ossian by his celebrated namesake.

"Birds of omen dark and foul,
Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl,
Leave the sick man to his dream--
All night long he heard your scream--
Haste to cave and ruin'd tower,
Ivy, tod, or dingled bower,
There to wink and mope, for, hark!
In the mid air sings the lark.

"Hie to moorish gills and rocks,
Prowling wolf and wily fox,--
Hie you fast, nor turn your view,