"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, 305
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: 310
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 315
May call some straggler of the train;
Or, fall the worst that may betide,
Ere now this falchion has been tried."