The hawk whoops on high, and keen, keen from yon' cliff,
Lo! the eagle on watch eyes the stag cold and stiff;
The deer-hound, majestic, looks lofty around,
While he lists with delight to the harp's distant sound;
Is it swept by the gale, as it slow wafts along
The heart-soothing tones of an olden times' song?
Or is it some Druid who touches, unseen,
'The Harp of the North,' newly strung now I ween?

'Tis Albyn's own minstrel! and, proud of his name,
He proclaims him chief bard, and immortal his fame!--
He gives tongue to those wild lilts that ravish'd of old,
And soul to the tales that so oft have been told;
Hence Walter the Minstrel shall flourish for aye,
Will breathe in sweet airs, and live long as his 'Lay;'
To ages unnumber'd thus yielding delight,
Which will last till the gloaming of Time's endless night.