As he spoke thus, he arose from his seat, and with that air of courtesy which every Highlander can assume when it suits him to practise it, he resigned it to Annot, and offered to her, at the same time, whatever refreshments the table afforded, with an assiduity which was probably designed to give Sir Duncan an impression of her rank and consequence.  If such was Allan’s purpose, however, it was unnecessary.  Sir Duncan kept his eyes fixed upon Annot with an expression of much deeper interest than could have arisen from any impression that she was a person of consequence.  Annot even felt embarrassed under the old knight’s steady gaze; and it was not without considerable hesitation, that, tuning her instrument, and receiving an assenting look from Lord Menteith and Allan, she executed the following ballad, which our friend, Mr. Secundus M’Pherson, whose goodness we had before to acknowledge, has thus translated into the English tongue: 

The orphan maid.

     November’s hail-cloud drifts away,
     November’s sunbeam wan
     Looks coldly on the castle grey,
     When forth comes Lady Anne.

     The orphan by the oak was set,
     Her arms, her feet, were bare,
     The hail-drops had not melted yet,
     Amid her raven hair.

     “And, Dame,” she said, “by all the ties
     That child and mother know,
     Aid one who never knew these joys,
     Relieve an orphan’s woe.”

     The Lady said, “An orphan’s state
     Is hard and sad to bear;
     Yet worse the widow’d mother’s fate,
     Who mourns both lord and heir.

     “Twelve times the rolling year has sped,
     Since, when from vengeance wild
     Of fierce Strathallan’s Chief I fled,
     Forth’s eddies whelm’d my child.”

     “Twelve times the year its course has born,”
     The wandering maid replied,
     “Since fishers on St. Bridget’s morn
     Drew nets on Campsie side.

     “St. Bridget sent no scaly spoil;—­
     An infant, wellnigh dead,
     They saved, and rear’d in want and toil,
     To beg from you her bread.”

     That orphan maid the lady kiss’d—­
     “My husband’s looks you bear;
     St. Bridget and her morn be bless’d! 
     You are his widow’s heir.”

     They’ve robed that maid, so poor and pale,
     In silk and sandals rare;
     And pearls, for drops of frozen hail,
     Are glistening in her hair.

The admirers of pure Celtic antiquity, notwithstanding the elegance of the above translation, may be desirous to see a literal version from the original Gaelic, which we therefore subjoin; and have only to add, that the original is deposited with Mr. Jedediah Cleishbotham.

Literal translation.

The hail-blast had drifted away upon the wings of the gale of autumn.  The sun looked from between the clouds, pale as the wounded hero who rears his head feebly on the heath when the roar of battle hath passed over him.

     Finele, the Lady of the Castle, came forth to see her
     maidens pass to the herds with their leglins [Milk-pails].