The Waverley novels, by Sir Walter Scott, complete in 12 vol., printed from the latest English ed., embracing the author's last corrections, prefaces & notes.

300 WAVERLEY NOVELS.
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Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!Return to thy dwelling; all lonely return;
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.
CAMPBELL.
THE night continued sullen and stormy; but morning rose as if refreshed
by the rains. Even the Mucklestane-Moor, with its broad bleak swells of
barren grounds, interspersed with marshy pools of water, seemed to smile
under the serene influence of the sky, just as good-humour can spread a
certain inexpressible charm over the plainest human countenance. The
heath was in its thickest and deepest bloom. The bees, which the Solitary
had added to his rural establishment, were abroad and on the wing, and
filled the air with the murmurs of their industry. As the old man crept
out of his little hut, his two she-goats came to meet him, and licked his
hands in gratitude for the vegetables with which he supplied them from his
garden. "'You, at least," he said - "you, at least, see no differences in
forin which can alter your feelings to a benefactor-to you, the finest shape
that ever statuary moulded would be an object of indifference or of alarm,
should it present itself instead of the mis-shapen trunk to whose services
you are accustomed. While I was in the world, did I ever meet with such
a return of gratitude? No,; the domestic whom I had bred from infancy
made mouths at me as he stood behind my chair; the friend whom I had
supported with my fortune, and for whose sake I had even stained (he
stopped with a strong convulsive shudder,) even he thought me more fit for
the society of lunatics — for their disgraceful restraints —for their cruel
privations, than for communication with the rest of humanity. Hubert
alone -and Hubert too will one day abandon me. All are of a piece, one
mass of wickedness, selfishness, and ingratitude -wretches, who sin even
in their devotions; and of such hardness of heart, that they do not, without hypocrisy, even thank the Deity himself for his warm sun and pure
air."
As he was plunged in these gloomy soliloquies, he heard the tramp of a
horse on the other side of his enclosure, and a strong clear bass voice singing with the liveliness inspired by a light heart,
Canny Hobbie Elliot, canny Hobblie now,
Canny I-obbie Elliot, l'se gang alang wi' you.
At the same moment, a large deer greyhound sprung over the hermit's
fence. It is well known to the sportsmen in these wilds, that the appearance and scent of the goat so much resemble those of their usual objects
of chase, that the best-broke greyhounds will sometimes fly upon them.
The dog in question instantly pulled down and throttled one of the hermit's
she-goats, while Hobbie Elliot, who came up, and jumped from his horse
for the purpose, was unable to extricate the harmless animal from the fangs
of his attendant until it was expiring. The Dwarf eyed, for a few moments,
the convulsive starts of his dying favourite, until the poor goat stretched
out her limbs with the twitches and shivering fit of the last agony. He
then started into an.access of frenzy, and unsheathing a long sharp knife,
or dagger, which he wore under his coat, he was about to lanch it at the
dog, when Hobbie, perceiving his purpose, interposed, and caught hold of
his hand, exclaiming, " Let a be the hound, man - let a be the hound i -
Na na, Killbuck maunna be guided that gate, neither."