Interlude before Young Kennedy

The strain died soft in note of woe,
Nor breath nor whisper ' gan to flow
From courtly circle ; all was still
As midnight on the lonely hill.
So well that foreign minstrel's strain
Had mimicked passion, woe, and pain.
Seemed even the chilly hand of death
Stealing away his mellow breath.

So sighed — so stopped — so died his lay,
His spirit too seemed fled for aye.

'Tis true, the gay attentive throng
Admired, but loved not much, his song ;
Admired his wondrous voice and skill,
His harp that thrilled or wept at will.
But that affected gaudy rhyme,
The querulous keys and changing chime,
Scarce could the Highland chieftain brook
Disdain seemed kindling in his look,
That song so vapid, artful, terse,
Should e'er compete with Scottish verse.

But she, the fairest of the fair,
Who sat enthroned in gilded chair,
Well skilled in foreign minstrelsy
And artful airs of Italy,
Listened his song, with raptures wild,
And on the happy minstrel smiled.
Soon did the wily stranger's eye
The notice most he wished espy,
Then poured his numbers bold and free,
Fired by the grace of majesty ;
And when his last notes died away,
When sunk in well-feigned death he lay,
When round the crowd began to ring,
Thinking his spirit on the wing, —
First of the dames she came along,
Wept, sighed, and marvelled 'mid the throng.
And when they raised him, it was said
The beauteous sovereign deigned her aid ;
And in her hands, so soft and warm,
Upheld the minstrel's hand and arm.
Then oped his eye with rapture fired ;
He smiled, and, bowing oft, retired ;
Pleased he so soon had realized
What more than gold or fame he prized.

Next in the list was Gardyn's name :
No sooner called than forth he came.
Stately he strode, nor bow made he,
Nor even a look of courtesy.
The simpering cringe, and fawning look,
Of him who late the lists forsook,
Roused his proud heart, and fired his eye
That glowed with native dignity.

Full sixty years the bard had seen,
Yet still his manly form and mien,
His garb of ancient Caledon,
Where lines of silk and scarlet shone,
And golden garters 'neath his knee,
Announced no man of mean degree.

Upon his harp, of wondrous frame,
Was carved his lineage and his name.
There stood the cross that name above,
Fair emblem of Almighty love ;
Beneath rose an embossment proud, —
A Rose beneath a Thistle bowed.

Lightly upon the form he sprung,
And his bold harp impetuous rung.

Not one by one the chords he tried,
But brushed them o'er from side to side,
With either hand, so rapid, loud,
Shook were the halls of Holyrood.
Then in a mellow tone, and strong,
He poured this wild and dreadful song. —