Chapter 36

'Viewing the mountain's ridge askance, The Saxons stood in sullen trance, Till Moray pointed with his lance, And cried: "Behold yon isle!-- See! none are left to guard its strand But women weak, that wring the hand: 'Tis there of yore the robber band Their booty wont to pile;-- My purse, with bonnet-pieces store, To him will swim a bow-shot o'er, And loose a shallop from the shore. Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then, Lords of his mate, and broo…