Xvi

"Blithe were it then to wander here! But now--beshrew yon nimble deer-- Like that same hermit's, thin and spare, The copse must give my evening fare; Some mossy bank my couch must be, Some rustling oak my canopy. Yet pass we that; the war and chase Give little choice of resting-place-- A summer night, in greenwood spent, Were but tomorrow's merriment: But hosts may in these wilds abound, Such as are better missed than found; To meet with Highland plunderers here, Were worse than loss of steed or deer. I am alone; my bugle-strain May call some straggler of the train; Or, fall the worst that may betide, Ere now this falchion has been tried."