"Fierce on the hunter's quiver'd band
He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow,
Spurns, with black hoof and horn, the sand,
And tosses high his mane of snow.

"Aim'd well, the chieftain's lance has flown;
Struggling in blood the savage lies;
His roar is sunk in hollow groan,--
Sound, merry huntsman! sound the pryse!"

It is while the hunters are resting after this feat, that
Bothwellhaugh dashes among them headlong, spurring his jaded steed
with poniard instead of spur:--

"From gory selle and reeling steed,
Sprang the fierce horseman with a bound,
And reeking from the recent deed,
He dash'd his carbine on the ground."

And then Bothwellhaugh tells his tale of blood, describing the
procession from which he had singled out his prey:--

"'Dark Morton, girt with many a spear,
Murder's foul minion, led the van;
And clash'd their broadswords in the rear
The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan.

"'Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh,
Obsequious at their Regent's rein,