Chapter 16

'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 to-morrow'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.'