The youth was born of high degree;
He was the last of Duncan's race,
The only hope of Romillé.

In his bright eye the youthful fire
Was glowing with unwonted brightness;
Warm in friendship, fierce in ire,
Yet spoke of all its bosom's lightness.
His mother marked his brilliant cheek,
And blessed him as he onward past;
Ah! did no boding feeling speak,
To tell that look would be her last.
He held the hound in silken band,
The merlin perched upon his hand,
And frolic, mirth and wayward glee
Glanced in the heart of Romillé.

And oft the huntsman by his side,
Would warn him from the fatal tide,
And whisper in his heedless ear,
To think upon his mother's tear,
Should aught of ill or harm befall
Her child, her hope, her life, her all;
And bade him, for more sakes than one,
The desperate, dangerous leap to shun.
He smiled, and gave the herdsman's prayer.
And all his counsel to the air,
And laughed to see the old man's eye,
Fix'd in imploring agony.