After the table was cleared, observing that he was still silent and abstracted, Lady Juliana turned to her husband, and, laying her hand on his shoulder, “You are not well, love!” said she, looking up in his face, and shaking back the redundant ringlets that shaded her own.

“Perfectly so,” replied her husband, with a sigh.

“What?  Dull?  Then I must sing to enliven you.”

And, leaning her head on his shoulder, she warbled a verse of the beautiful little Venetian air, La Biondina in Gondoletta. Then suddenly stopping, and fixing her eyes on Mrs. Douglas, “I beg pardon, perhaps you don’t like music; perhaps my singing’s a bore.”

“You pay us a bad compliment in saying so,” said her sister-in-law, smiling; “and the only atonement you can make for such an injurious doubt is to proceed.”

“Does anybody sing here?” asked she, without noticing this request.  “Do, somebody, sing me a song.”

“Oh! we all sing, and dance too,” said one, of the old young ladies; “and after tea we will show you some of our Scotch steps; but in the meantime Mrs. Douglas will favour us with her song.”

Mrs. Douglas assented good-humouredly, though aware that it would be rather a nice point to please all parties in the choice of a song.  The Laird reckoned all foreign music—­i.e. everything that was not Scotch—­an outrage upon his ears; and Mrs. Douglas had too much taste to murder Scotch songs with her English accent.  She therefore compromised the matter as well as she could by selecting a Highland ditty clothed in her own native tongue; and sang with much pathos and simplicity the lamented Leyden’s “Fall of Macgregor:” 

    “In the vale of Glenorehy the night breeze was sighing
    O’er the tomb where the ancient Macgregors are lying;
    Green are their graves by their soft murmuring river,
    But the name of Macgregor has perished for ever.

    “On a red stream of light, by his gray mountains glancing,
    Soon I beheld a dim spirit advancing;
    Slow o’er the heath of the dead was its motion,
    Like the shadow of mist o’er the foam of the ocean.

    “Like the sound of a stream through the still evening dying,—­
    Stranger! who treads where Macgregor is lying? 
    Darest thou to walk, unappall’d and firm-hearted,
    ’Mid the shadowy steps of the mighty departed?

    “See! round thee the caves of the dead are disclosing
    The shades that have long been in silence reposing;
    Thro’ their forms dimly twinkles the moon-beam descending,
    As upon thee their red eyes of wrath they are bending.

    “Our gray stones of fame though the heath-blossom cover,
    Round the fields of our battles our spirits still hover;
    Where we oft saw the streams running red from the mountains;
    But dark are our forms by our blue native fountains.

    “For our fame melts away like the foam of the river,
    Like the last yellow leaves on the oak-boughs that shiver: 
    The name is unknown of our fathers so gallant;
    And our blood beats no more in the breasts of the valiant.