Part 2 — III MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY SCOTO-CELTIC

There’s a sound on the hill, Not of joy but of ailing; Dark-hair’d women mourn— Beat their hands, with loud wailing. They cry out, Ochon! For the young Monaltri, Who went to the hill; But home came not he. Without snood, without plaid Katrina’s gone roaming. O Katrina, my dear! Homeward be coming. Och! hear, on the castle Yon pretty bird singing, “Snoodless and plaidless, Her hands she is ringing.”

Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O, Goiridh òg O, Goiridh òg O; Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O, I’ve lost my darling baby O! I left my darling lying here, A-lying here, a-lying here; I left my darling lying here, To go and gather blaeberries. I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track, The otter’s track, the otter’s track; I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track, But ne’er a trace of baby O! I found the track of the swan on the lake, The swan on the lake, the swan on the lake; I found the track of the swan on the lake, But not the track of baby O! I found the track of the yellow fawn, The yellow fawn, the yellow fawn; I found the track of the yellow fawn, But could not trace my baby O! I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist, The mountain mist, the mountain mist; I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist, But ne’er a trace of baby O!

Ho, my bonnie boatie, Thou bonnie boatie mine! So trim and tight a boatie Was never launched on brine. Ho, my bonnie boatie, My praise is justly thine Above all bonnie boaties Were builded on Loch Fyne! Hò mo bhàta laghach, ’S tu mo bhàta grinn; Hò mo bhàta laghach, ’S tu mo bhàta grinn. Hò mo bhàta laghach, ’S tu mo bhàta grinn: Mo bhàta boidheach laghach, Thogadh taobh Loch Fin. To build thee up so firmly, I knew the stuff was good; Thy keel of stoutest elm-tree, Well fixed in oaken wood; Thy timbers ripely seasoned Of cleanest Norway pine Well cased in ruddy copper, To plough the deep were thine! Hò mo bhàta, etc. How lovely was my boatie At rest upon the shore, Before my bonnie boatie Had known wild ocean’s roar. Thy deck so smooth and stainless, With such fine bend thy rim, Thy seams that know no gaping, Thy masts so tall and trim. Hò mo bhàta, etc. And bonnie was my boatie Afloat upon the bay, When smooth as mirror round her The heaving ocean lay; While round the cradled boatie Light troops of plumy things To praise the bonnie boatie Made music with their wings. Hò mo bhàta, etc. How eager was my boatie To plough the swelling seas, When o’er the curling waters Full sharply blew the breeze! O, ’twas she that stood to windward, The first among her peers, When shrill the blasty music Came piping round her ears! Hò mo bhàta, etc. And where the sea came surging In mountains from the west, And reared the racing billow Its high and hissing crest; She turned her head so deftly, With skill so firmly shown, The billows they went their way The boatie went her own. Hò mo bhàta, etc. And when the sudden squall came Black swooping from the Ben, And white the foam was spinning Around thy topmast then, O never knew my boatie A thought of ugly dread, But dashed right through the billow, With the spray-shower round her head! Hò mo bhàta, etc. Yet wert thou never headstrong To stand with forward will, When yielding was thy wisdom And caution was my skill. How neatly and how nimbly Thou turned thee to the wind, With thy leeside in the water And a swirling trail behind! Hò mo bhàta, etc. What though a lonely dwelling On barren shore I own, My kingdom is the blue wave, My boatie is my throne! I’ll never want a dainty dish To breakfast or to dine, While men may man my boatie And fish swim in Loch Fyne! Hò mo bhàta laghach, ’S tu mo bhàta grinn. Hò mo bhàta laghach, ’S tu mo bhàta grinn. Hò mo bhàta laghach, ’S tu mo bhàta grinn: Mo bhàta boidheach laghach, Thogadh taobh Loch Fin.

I’ve wander’d east and west, And a soldier I hae been; The scars upon my breast Tell the wars that I have seen. But now I’m old and worn, And my locks are thinly spread, And I’m come to die in peace, By the Gareloch Head. When I was young and strong, Oft a wandering I would go, By the rough shores of Loch Long, Up to lone Glencroe. But now I’m fain to rest, And my resting-place I’ve made, On the green and gentle bosom Of the Gareloch Head. ’Twas here my Jeanie grew, Like a lamb amid the flocks, With her eyes of bonnie blue, And her gowden locks. And here we often met, When with lightsome foot we sped, O’er the green and grassy knolls At the Gareloch Head. ’Twas here she pined and died— O! the salt tear in my e’e Forbids my heart to hide What Jeanie was to me! ’Twas here my Jeanie died, And they scoop’d her lowly bed, ’Neath the green and grassy turf At the Gareloch Head. Like a leaf in leafy June, From the leafy forest torn, She fell, and I’ll fall soon Like a sheaf of yellow corn. For I’m sere and weary now, And I soon shall make my bed With my Jeanie ’neath the turf At the Gareloch Head.

Wherever men sinned and wept, I wandered in my quest; At last in a Garden of God I saw the Flower of the World. This Flower had human eyes, Its breath was the breath of the mouth; Sunlight and starlight came, And the Flower drank bliss from both. Whatever was base and unclean, Whatever was sad and strange, Was piled around its roots; It drew its strength from the same. Whatever was formless and base Pass’d into fineness and form; Whatever was lifeless and mean Grew into beautiful bloom. Then I thought “O Flower of the World, Miraculous Blossom of things, Light as a faint wreath of snow Thou tremblest to fall in the wind: “O beautiful Flower of the World, Fall not nor wither away; He is coming—He cannot be far— The Lord of the Flow’rs and the Stars.” And I cried, “O Spirit divine! That walkest the Garden unseen, Come hither, and bless, ere it dies, The beautiful Flower of the World.”

I have come from a mystical Land of Light To a Strange Country; The Land I have left is forgotten quite In the Land I see. The round Earth rolls beneath my feet, And the still Stars glow, The murmuring Waters rise and retreat, The Winds come and go. Sure as a heart-beat all things seem In this Strange Country; So sure, so still, in a dazzle of dream, All things flow free. ’Tis life, all life, be it pleasure or pain, In the Field and the Flood, In the beating Heart, in the burning Brain, In the Flesh and the Blood. Deep as Death is the daily strife Of this Strange Country: All things thrill up till they blossom in Life, And flutter and flee. Nothing is stranger than the rest, From the pole to the pole, The weed by the way, the eggs in the nest, The Flesh and the Soul. Look in mine eyes, O Man I meet In this Strange Country! Lie in my arms, O Maiden sweet, With thy mouth kiss me! Go by, O King, with thy crownèd brow And thy sceptred hand— Thou art a straggler too, I vow, From the same strange Land. O wondrous Faces that upstart In this Strange Country! O Souls, O Shades, that become a part Of my Soul and me! What are ye working so fast and fleet, O Humankind? “We are building Cities for those whose feet Are coming behind; “Our stay is short, we must fly again From this Strange Country; But others are growing, women and men, Eternally!” Child, what art thou? and what am I? But a breaking wave! Rising and rolling on, we hie To the shore of the grave. I have come from a mystical Land of Light To this Strange Country; This dawn I came, I shall go to-night, Ay me! ay me! I hold my hand to my head and stand ’Neath the air’s blue arc, I try to remember the mystical Land, But all is dark. And all around me swim Shapes like mine In this Strange Country;— They break in the glamour of gleams divine, And they moan “Ay me!” Like waves in the cold Moon’s silvern breath They gather and roll, Each crest of white is a birth or a death, Each sound is a Soul. Oh, whose is the Eye that gleams so bright O’er this Strange Country? It draws us along with a chain of light, As the Moon the Sea!

Now, sitting by her side, worn out with weeping, Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision, Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice intoning: Crying aloud, “The Master on His throne Openeth now the seventh seal of wonder, And beckoneth back the angel men name Death. And at His feet the mighty Angel kneeleth, Breathing not; and the Lord doth look upon him, Saying, ’Thy wanderings on earth are ended.’” And lo! the mighty Shadow sitteth idle Even at the silver gates of heaven, Drowsily looking in on quiet waters, And puts his silence among men no longer. * The world was very quiet. Men in traffic Cast looks over their shoulders; pallid seamen Shivered to walk upon the decks alone; And women barred their doors with bars of iron, In the silence of the night; and at the sunrise Trembled behind the husbandmen afield. I could not see a kirkyard near or far; I thirsted for a green grave, and my vision Was weary for the white gleam of a tombstone. But hearkening dumbly, ever and anon I heard a cry out of a human dwelling, And felt the cold wind of a lost one’s going. One struck a brother fiercely, and he fell, And faded in a darkness; and that other Tore his hair, and was afraid, and could not perish. One struck his aged mother on the mouth, And she vanished with a gray grief from his hearthstone. One melted from her bairn, and on the ground With sweet unconscious eyes the bairn lay smiling. And many made a weeping among mountains, And hid themselves in caverns, and were drunken. I heard a voice from out the beauteous earth, Whose side rolled up from winter into summer, Crying, “I am grievous for my children.” I heard a voice from out the hoary ocean, Crying, “Burial in the breast of me were better,— Yea, burial in the salt flags and green crystals.” I heard a voice from out the hollow ether, Saying, “The thing ye cursed hath been abolished— Corruption, and decay, and dissolution!” And the world shrieked, and the summer-time was bitter, And men and women feared the air behind them; And for lack of its green graves the world was hateful. * Now at the bottom of a snowy mountain I came upon a woman thin with sorrow, Whose voice was like the crying of a sea-gull: Saying, “O Angel of the Lord, come hither, And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom, That I may close his eyelids and embrace him. “I curse thee that I cannot look upon him! I curse thee that I know not he is sleeping! Yet know that he has vanished upon God! “I laid my little girl upon a wood-bier, And very sweet she seemed, and near unto me; And slipping flowers into her shroud was comfort. “I put my silver mother in the darkness, And kissed her, and was solaced by her kisses, And set a stone, to mark the place, above her. “And green, green were their quiet sleeping places, So green that it was pleasant to remember That I and my tall man would sleep beside them. “The closing of dead eyelids is not dreadful, For comfort comes upon us when we close them, And tears fall, and our sorrow grows familiar; “And we can sit above them where they slumber, And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness, And know indeed that we are very near them. “But to reach out empty arms is surely dreadful, And to feel the hollow empty world is awful, And bitter grow the silence and the distance. “There is no space for grieving or for weeping; No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with, And nothing but a horror and a blankness!” * Now behold I saw a woman in a mud-hut Raking the white spent embers with her fingers, And fouling her bright hair with the white ashes. Her mouth was very bitter with the ashes; Her eyes with dust were blinded; and her sorrow Sobbed in the throat of her like gurgling water. And, all around, the voiceless hills were hoary, But red light scorched their edges; and above her There was a soundless trouble of the vapours. “Whither, and O whither,” said the woman, “O Spirit of the Lord, hast Thou conveyed them, My little ones, my little son and daughter? “For, lo! we wandered forth at early morning, And winds were blowing round us, and their mouths Blew rose-buds to the rose-buds, and their eyes “Looked violets at the violets, and their hair Made sunshine in the sunshine, and their passing Left a pleasure in the dewy leaves behind them; “And suddenly my little son looked upward, And his eyes were dried like dew-drops; and his going Was like a blow of fire upon my face. “And my little son was gone. My little daughter Looked round me for him, clinging to my vesture; But the Lord had drawn him from me, and I knew it “By the sign He gives the stricken, that the lost one Lingers nowhere on the earth, on hill or valley, Neither underneath the grasses nor the tree-roots. “And my shriek was like the splitting of an ice-reef, And I sank among my hair, and all my palm Was moist and warm where the little hand had filled it. “Then I fled and sought him wildly, hither and thither— Though I knew that he was stricken from me wholly By the token that the Spirit gives the stricken. “I sought him in the sunlight and the starlight, I sought him in great forests, and in waters Where I saw mine own pale image looking at me. “And I forgot my little bright-haired daughter, Though her voice was like a wild-bird’s far behind me, Till the voice ceased, and the universe was silent. “And stilly, in the starlight, came I backward To the forest where I missed him; and no voices Brake the stillness as I stooped down in the starlight, “And saw two little shoes filled up with dew, And no mark of little footsteps any farther, And knew my little daughter had gone also.” * But beasts died; yea, the cattle in the yoke, The milk-cow in the meadow, and the sheep, And the dog upon the doorstep: and men envied. And birds died; yea, the eagle at the sun-gate, The swan upon the waters, and the farm-fowl, And the swallows on the housetops: and men envied. And reptiles; yea, the toad upon the roadside, The slimy, speckled snake among the grass, The lizard on the ruin: and men envied. The dog in lonely places cried not over The body of his master; but it missed him, And whined into the air, and died, and rotted. The traveller’s horse lay swollen in the pathway, And the blue fly fed upon it; but no traveller Was there; nay, not his footprint on the ground. The cat mewed in the midnight, and the blind Gave a rustle, and the lamp burned blue and faint, And the father’s bed was empty in the morning. The mother fell to sleep beside the cradle, Rocking it, while she slumbered, with her foot, And wakened,—and the cradle there was empty. I saw a two-years’ child, and he was playing; And he found a dead white bird upon the doorway, And laughed, and ran to show it to his mother, The mother moaned, and clutched him, and was bitter, And flung the dead white bird across the threshold; And another white bird flitted round and round it, And uttered a sharp cry, and twittered and twittered, And lit beside its dead mate, and grew busy, Strewing it over with green leaves and yellow. * So far, so far to seek for were the limits Of affliction; and men’s terror grew a homeless Terror, yea, and a fatal sense of blankness. There was no little token of distraction, There was no visible presence of bereavement, Such as the mourner easeth out his heart on. There was no comfort in the slow farewell, Nor gentle shutting of belovèd eyes, Nor beautiful broodings over sleeping features. There were no kisses on familiar faces, No weaving of white grave-clothes, no last pondering Over the still wax cheeks and folded fingers. There was no putting tokens under pillows, There was no dreadful beauty slowly fading, Fading like moonlight softly into darkness. There were no churchyard paths to walk on, thinking How near the well-beloved ones are lying. There were no sweet green graves to sit and muse on, Till grief should grow a summer meditation, The shadow of the passing of an angel, And sleeping should seem easy, and not cruel. Nothing but wondrous parting and a blankness.

But I woke, And, lo! the burthen was uplifted, And I prayed within the chamber where she slumbered, And my tears flowed fast and free, but were not bitter. I eased my heart three days by watching near her, And made her pillow sweet with scent and flowers, And could bear at last to put her in the darkness. And I heard the kirk-bells ringing very slowly, And the priests were in their vestments, and the earth Dripped awful on the hard wood, yet I bore it. And I cried, “O unseen Sender of Corruption, I bless Thee for the wonder of Thy mercy, Which softeneth the mystery and the parting. “I bless Thee for the change and for the comfort, The bloomless face, shut eyes, and waxen fingers,— For Sleeping, and for Silence, and Corruption.”

Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay! I had not been a wedded wife a twelvemonth and a day, I had not nurs’d my little one a month upon my knee, When down among the blue-bell banks rose elfins three times three, They gripp’d me by the raven hair, I could not cry for fear, They put a hempen rope around my waist and dragg’d me here, They made me sit and give thee suck as mortal mothers can, Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! strange and weak and wan! Dim Face, Grim Face! lie ye there so still? Thy red, red lips are at my breast, and thou may’st suck thy fill; But know ye, tho’ I hold thee firm, and rock thee to and fro, ’Tis not to soothe thee into sleep, but just to still my woe? And know ye, when I lean so calm against the wall of stone, ’Tis when I shut my eyes and try to think thou art mine own? And know ye, tho’ my milk be here, my heart is far away, Dim Face, Grim Face! Daughter of a Fay! Gold Hair, Cold Hair! Daughter to a King! Wrapp’d in bands of snow-white silk with jewels glittering, Tiny slippers of the gold upon thy feet so thin, Silver cradle velvet-lin’d for thee to slumber in, Pygmy pages, crimson-hair’d, to serve thee on their knees, To fan thy face with ferns and bring thee honey bags of bees,— I was but a peasant lass, my babe had but the milk, Gold Hair, Cold Hair! raimented in silk! Pale Thing, Frail Thing! dumb and weak and thin, Altho’ thou ne’er dost utter sigh thou’rt shadow’d with a sin; Thy minnie scorns to suckle thee, thy minnie is an elf, Upon a bed of rose’s-leaves she lies and fans herself; And though my heart is aching so for one afar from me, I often look into thy face and drop a tear for thee, And I am but a peasant born, a lowly cottar’s wife, Pale Thing, Frail Thing! sucking at my life! Weak Thing, Meek Thing! take no blame from me, Altho’ my babe may moan for lack of what I give to thee; For though thou art a faëry child, and though thou art my woe, To feel thee sucking at my breast is all the bliss I know; It soothes me, though afar away I hear my daughter call, My heart were broken if I felt no little lips at all! If I had none to tend at all, to be its nurse and slave, Weak Thing, Meek Thing! I should shriek and rave! Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! lying on my knee! If soon I be not taken back unto mine own countree, To feel my own babe’s little lips, as I am feeling thine, To smooth the golden threads of hair, to see the blue eyes shine,— I’ll lean my head against the wall and close my weary eyes, And think my own babe draws the milk with balmy pants and sighs, And smile and bless my little one and sweetly pass away, Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay!

When we two parted In silence and tears, Half-broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sank chill on my brow— It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o’er me— Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well:— Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell. In secret we met— In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How shall I greet thee?— With silence and tears.

There be none of Beauty’s daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean’s pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull’d winds seem dreaming. And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o’er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant’s asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer’s ocean.

A maiden sang sweetly As a bird on a tree, Cro’ Chaillean, Cro’ Chaillean, Cro’ Chaillean for me! My own Colin’s cattle, Dappled, dun, brown, and grey, They return to the milking At the close of the day. In the morning they wander To their pastures afar, Where the grass grows the greenest By corrie and scaur. They wander the uplands Where the soft breezes blow, And they drink from the fountain Where the sweet cresses grow. But so far as they wander, Dappled, dun, brown, and grey, They return to the milking At the close of the day. My bed’s in the Shian On the canach’s soft down, But I’d sleep best with Colin In our shieling alone. Thus a maiden sang sweetly As a bird on a tree, Cro’ Chaillean, Cro’ Chaillean, Cro’ Chaillean for me.

Round Coolin’s peak the mist is sailing, The banshee croons her note of wailing, Mild blue eyne with sorrow are streaming For him that shall never return, MacCrimmon! The breeze on the brae is mournfully blowing! The brook in the hollow is plaintively flowing, The warblers, the soul of the groves, are moaning, For MacCrimmon that’s gone, with no hope of returning! The tearful clouds the stars are veiling, The sails are spread, but the boat is not sailing, The waves of the sea are moaning and mourning For MacCrimmon that’s gone to find no returning! No more on the hill at the festal meeting The pipe shall sound with echo repeating, And lads and lasses change mirth to mourning For him that is gone to know no returning! No more, no more, no more for ever, In war or peace, shall return MacCrimmon; No more, no more, no more for ever Shall love or gold bring back MacCrimmon!

Thy dark eyes to mine, Aithne, Lamps of desire! O how my soul leaps Leaps to their fire! Sure, now, if I in heaven Dreaming in bliss, Heard but the whisper, But the lost echo even Of one such kiss— All of the Soul of me Would leap afar— If that called me to thee, Aye, I would leap afar A falling star!

I hang about the streets all day, At night I hang about; I sleep a little when I may, But rise betimes the morning’s scout; For through the year I always hear Afar, aloft, a ghostly shout. My clothes are worn to threads and loops; My skin shows here and there; About my face like seaweed droops My tangled beard, my tangled hair; From cavernous and shaggy brows My stony eyes untroubled stare. I move from eastern wretchedness Through Fleet Street and the Strand; And as the pleasant people press I touch them softly with my hand, Perhaps I know that still I go Alive about a living land. For, far in front the clouds are riven; I hear the ghostly cry, As if a still voice fell from heaven To where sea-whelmed the drowned folk lie In sepulchres no tempest stirs And only eyeless things pass by. In Piccadilly spirits pass: Oh, eyes and cheeks that glow! Oh, strength and comeliness! Alas, The lustrous health is earth I know From shrinking eyes that recognise No brother in my rags and woe. I know no handicraft, no art, But I have conquered fate; For I have chosen the better part, And neither hope, nor fear, nor hate. With placid breath on pain and death, My certain alms, alone I wait. And daily, nightly comes the call, The pale unechoing note, The faint “Aha!” sent from the wall Of heaven, but from no ruddy throat Of human breed or seraph’s seed, A phantom voice that cries by rote.

As I went down to Dymchurch Wall, I heard the South sing o’er the land; I saw the yellow sunlight fall On knolls where Norman churches stand. And ringing shrilly, taut and lithe, Within the wind a core of sound, The wire from Romney town to Hythe Along its airy journey wound. A veil of purple vapour flowed And trailed its fringe along the Straits; The upper air like sapphire glowed: And roses filled Heaven’s central gates. Masts in the offing wagged their tops; The swinging waves pealed on the shore; The saffron beach, all diamond drops And beads of surge, prolonged the roar. As I came up from Dymchurch Wall, I saw above the Downs’ low crest The crimson brands of sunset fall, Flicker and fade from out the West. Night sank: like flakes of silver fire The stars in one great shower came down; Shrill blew the wind; and shrill the wire Rang out from Hythe to Romney town. The darkly shining salt sea drops Streamed as the waves clashed on the shore; The beach, with all its organ stops Pealing again, prolonged the roar.

Comin’ through the craigs o’ Kyle, Amang the bonnie bloomin’ heather, There I met a bonnie lassie, Keepin’ a’ her ewes thegither. O’er the muir amang the heather, O’er the muir amang the heather, There I met a bonnie lassie Keepin’ a’ her ewes thegither. Says I, My dear, where is thy hame? In muir or dale, pray tell me whether? Says she, I tent the fleecy flocks That feed amang the bloomin’ heather. O’er the muir, etc. We laid us down upon a bank, Sae warm and sunnie was the weather; She left her flocks at large to rove Amang the bonnie bloomin’ heather. O’er the muir, etc. While thus we lay, she sang a sang, Till echo rang a mile and further; And aye the burden of the sang Was, O’er the muir amang the heather. O’er the muir, etc. She charmed my heart, and aye sin syne I couldna’ think on ony ither; By sea and sky! she shall be mine, The bonnie lass amang the heather. O’er the muir amang the heather, O’er the muir amang the heather, There I met a bonnie lassie Keepin’ a’ her flocks thegither.

Once I was a child, Oimè! Full of frolic wild; Oimè! All the stars for glancing, All the earth for dancing; Oimè! Oimè! When I ran about, Oimè! All the flowers came out, Oimè! Here and there like stray things, Just to be my playthings. Oimè! Oimè! Mother’s eyes were deep, Oimè! Never needing sleep. Oimè! Morning—they’re above me! Eventide—they love me! Oimè! Oimè! Father was so tall! Oimè! Stronger he than all! Oimè! On his arm he bore me, Queen of all before me. Oimè! Oimè! Mother is asleep! Oimè! For her eyes so deep, Oimè! Grew so tired and aching, They could not keep waking, Oimè! Oimè! Father though so strong Oimè! Laid him down along— Oimè! By my mother sleeping; And they left me weeping, Oimè! Oimè! Now nor bird, nor bee, Oimè! Ever sings to me Oimè! Since they left me crying, All things have been dying. Oimè! Oimè!

Alas, alas, eheu! That the sky is only blue, To gather from the grass The rain and dew! Alas! that eyes are fair: That tears may gather there Mist and the breath of sighs From the marsh of care! Alas, alas, eheu! That we meet but to bid adieu: That the sands in Time’s ancient glass Are so swift and few! Alas, alas, eheu! That the heart is only true To gather, where false feet pass, The thorn and rue!

All the meadowlands were gay Once upon a morn of May; All the tree of life was dight With the blossoms of delight. And my whole heart was a-tune With the songs of long ere noon— Dew-bedecked and fresh and free, As the unsunned meadows be. “Lo!” I said unto my spirit, “Earth and sky thou dost inherit.” Forth I wandered, void of care, In the largesse of the air. By there came a damosel, At a look I loved her well: But she passed and would not stay— And all the rest has gone away. And now no fields are fair to see, Nor any bud on any tree; Nor have I share in earth or sky— All for a maiden’s passing by!

Full of grief, the low winds sweep O’er the sorrow-haunted ground; Dark the woods where night rains weep, Dark the hills that watch around. Tell me, can the joy of spring Ever make this sadness flee, Make the woods with music ring, And the streamlet laugh for glee? When the summer moor is lit With the pale fire of the broom, And through green the shadows flit, Still shall mirth give place to gloom? Sad shall it be, though sun be shed Golden bright on field and flood; E’en the heather’s crimson red Holds the memory of blood. Here that broken, weary band Met the ruthless foe’s array, Where those moss-grown boulders stand, On that dark and fatal day. Like a phantom hope had fled, Love to death was all in vain, Vain, though heroes’ blood was shed, And though hearts were broke in twain. Many a voice has cursed the name Time has into darkness thrust, Cruelty his only fame In forgetfulness and dust, Noble dead that sleep below, We your valour ne’er forget; Soft the heroes’ rest who know Hearts like theirs are beating yet.

I saw an old Dame weaving, Weaving, weaving, I saw an old Dame weaving, A web of tartan fine. “Sing high,” she said, “sing low,” she said, “Wild torrent to the sea, That saw my exiled bairnies torn, In sorrow far frae me. And warp well the long threads, The bright threads, the strong threads; Woof well the cross threads, To make the colours shine.” She wove in red for every deed, Of valour done for Scotia’s need: She wove in green, the laurel’s sheen, In memory of her glorious dead. She spake of Alma’s steep incline, The desert march, the “thin red line,” Of how it fired the blood and stirred the heart, Where’er a bairn of hers took part. “’Tis for the gallant lads,” she said, “Who wear the kilt and tartan plaid: ’Tis for the winsome lasses too, Just like my dainty bells of blue. So weave well the bright threads, The red threads, the green threads; Woof well the strong threads That bind their hearts to mine.” I saw an old Dame sighing, Sighing, sighing; I saw an old Dame sighing, Beside a lonely glen. “Sing high,” she said, “sing low,” she said, “Wild tempests to the sea, The wailing of the pibroch’s note, That bade farewell to me. And wae fa’ the red deer, The swift deer, the strong deer, Wae fa’ the cursed deer, That take the place o’ men.” Where’er a noble deed is wrought, Where’er the brightest realms of thought, The artists’ skill, the martial thrill, Be sure to Scotia’s land is wed. She casts the glamour of her name, O’er Britain’s throne and statesman’s fame; From distant lands ’neath foreign names, Some brilliant son his birthright claims. For ah!—she has reared them amid tempests, And cradled them in snow, To give the Scottish arms their strength, Their hearts a kindly glow. So weave well the bright threads, The red threads, the green threads, Woof well the strong threads That bind their hearts to thine.

Dear, dear, dear, In the rocky glen, Far away, far away, far away The haunts of men; There shall we dwell in love With the lark and the dove, Cuckoo and corn-rail, Feast on the bearded snail, Worm and gilded fly, Drink of the crystal rill Winding adown the hill Never to dry. With glee, with glee, with glee Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up here; Nothing to harm us, then sing merrily, Sing to the loved one whose nest is near. Qui, qui, queen, quip; Tiurru, tiurru, chipïwi, Too-tee, too-tee, chin-choo, Chirri, chirri, chooee Quin, qui, qui!

O Spirit, that broods upon the hills And moves upon the face of the deep, And is heard in the wind, Save us from the desire of men’s eyes, And the cruel lust of them, And the springing of the cruel seed In that narrow house which is as the grave For darkness and loneliness ... That women carry with them with shame, and weariness, and long pain, Only for the laughter of man’s heart, And the joy that triumphs therein, And the sport that is in his heart, Wherewith he mocketh us, Wherewith he playeth with us, Wherewith he trampleth upon us ... Us, who conceive and bear him; Us, who bring him forth; Who feed him in the womb, and at the breast, and at the knee: Whom he calleth mother and wife, And mother again of his children and his children’s children. Ah, hour of the hours, When he looks at our hair and sees it is grey; And at our eyes and sees they are dim; And at our lips straightened out with long pain; And at our breasts, fallen and seared as a barren hill; And at our hands, worn with toil! Ah, hour of the hours, When, seeing, he seeth all the bitter ruin and wreck of us— All save the violated womb that curses him— All save the heart that forbeareth ... for pity— All save the living brain that condemneth him— All save the spirit that shall not mate with him All save the soul he shall never see Till he be one with it, and equal; He who hath the bridle, but guideth not; He who hath the whip, yet is driven; He who as a shepherd calleth upon us, But is himself a lost sheep, crying among the hills! O Spirit, and the Nine Angels who watch us, And Thy Son, and Mary Virgin, Heal us of the wrong of man: We, whose breasts are weary with milk, Cry, cry to Thee, O Compassionate!

O Thou that on the hills and wastes of Night art Shepherd, Whose folds are flameless moons and icy planets, Whose darkling way is gloomed with ancient sorrows: Whose breath lies white as snow upon the olden, Whose sigh it is that furrows breasts grown milkless, Whose weariness is in the loins of man And is the barren stillness of the woman: O thou whom all would ’scape, and all must meet, Thou that the Shadow art of Youth Eternal, The gloom that is the hush’d air of the Grave, The sigh that is between last parted love, The light for aye withdrawing from weary eyes, The tide from stricken hearts forever ebbing! O thou the Elder Brother whom none loveth, Whom all men hail with reverence or mocking, Who broodest on the brows of frozen summits Yet dreamest in the eyes of babes and children: Thou, Shadow of the Heart, the Brain, the Life, Who art that dusk What-is that is already Has-Been, To thee this rune of the fathers-to-the-sons And of the sons to the sons, and mothers to new mothers— To thee who art Aois, To thee who art Age! Breathe thy frosty breath upon my hair, for I am weary! Lay thy frozen hand upon my bones that they support not, Put thy chill upon the blood that it sustain not; Place the crown of thy fulfilling on my forehead; Throw the silence of thy spirit on my spirit, Lay the balm and benediction of thy mercy On the brain-throb and the heart-pulse and the lifespring— For thy child that bows his head is weary, For thy child that bows his head is weary. I the shadow am that seeks the Darkness. Age, that hath the face of Night unstarr’d and moonless, Age, that doth extinguish star and planet, Moon and sun and all the fiery worlds, Give me now thy darkness and thy silence!

O sweet St Bride of the Yellow, yellow hair: Paul said, and Peter said, And all the saints alive or dead Vowed she had the sweetest head, Bonnie, sweet St Bride of the Yellow, yellow hair. White may my milking be, White as thee: Thy face is white, thy neck is white, Thy hands are white, thy feet are white, For thy sweet soul is shining bright— O dear to me, O dear to see St Bridget white! Yellow may my butter be, Soft, and round: Thy breasts are sweet, Soft, round and sweet, So may my butter be: So may my butter be O Bridget sweet! Safe thy way is, safe, O Safe, St Bride: May my kye come home at even, None be fallin’ none be leavin’, Dusky even, breath-sweet even, Here, as there, where O St Bride thou Keepest tryst with God in heav’n, Seest the angels bow And souls be shriven— Here, as there, ’tis breath-sweet even Far and wide— Singeth thy little maid Safe in thy shade Bridget, Bride!

Lennavan-mo, Lennavan-mo, Who is it swinging you to and fro, With a long low swing and a sweet low croon, And the loving words of the mother’s rune? Lennavan-mo, Lennavan-mo, Who is it swinging you to and fro? I’m thinking it is an angel fair, The Angel that looks on the gulf from the lowest stair And swings the green world upward by its leagues of sunshine hair. Lennavan-mo, Lennavan-mo, Who is it swings you and the Angel to and fro? It is He whose faintest thought is a world afar, It is He whose wish is a leaping seven-moon’d star, It is He, Lennavan-mo, To whom you and I and all things flow. Lennavan-mo, Lennavan-mo, It is only a little wee lass you are, Eilidh-mo-chree, But as this wee blossom has roots in the depths of the sky, So you are at one with the Lord of Eternity— Bonnie wee lass that you are, My morning-star, Eilidh-mo-chree, Lennavan-mo, Lennavan-mo.

His face was glad as dawn to me, His breath was sweet as dusk to me, His eyes were burning flames to me, Shule, Shule, Shule, agràh! The broad noon-day was night to me, The full-moon night was dark to me, The stars whirled and the poles span The hour God took him far from me. Perhaps he dreams in heaven now, Perhaps he doth in worship bow, A white flame round his foam-white brow, Shule, Shule, Shule, agràh! I laugh to think of him like this, Who once found all his joy and bliss Against my heart, against my kiss, Shule, Shule, Shule, agràh! Star of my joy, art still the same Now thou hast gotten a new name, Pulse of my heart, my Blood, my Flame, Shule, Shule, Shule, agràh!

He laid his dear face next to mine, His eyes aflame burned close to mine, His heart to mine, his lips to mine, O he was mine, all mine, all mine. Drunk with old wine of love I was, Drunk as the wild-bee in the grass Singing his honey-mad sweet bass, Drunk, drunk with wine of love I was! His lips of life to me were fief, Before him I was but a leaf Blown by the wind, a shaken leaf, Yea, as the sickle reaps the sheaf, My Grief! He reaped me as a gathered sheaf! His to be gathered, his the bliss, But not a greater bliss than this! All of the empty world to miss For wild redemption of his kiss! My Grief! For hell was lost, though heaven was brief Sphered in the universe of thy kiss— So cries to thee thy fallen leaf, Thy gathered sheaf, Lord of my life, my Pride, my Chief, My Grief!

Eilidh,[26] Eilidh, Eilidh, heart of me, dear and sweet! In dreams I am hearing the whisper, the sound of your coming feet: The sound of your coming feet that like the sea-hoofs beat A music by day and night, Eilidh, on the sands of my heart, my sweet! O sands of my heart what wind moans low along thy shadowy shore? Is that the deep sea-heart I hear with the dying sob at its core? Each dim lost wave that lapses is like a closing door: ’Tis closing doors they hear at last who soon shall hear no more, Who soon shall hear no more. Eilidh, Eilidh, Eilidh, come home, come home to the heart o’ me: It is pain I am having ever, Eilidh, a pain that will not be: Come home, come home, for closing doors are as the waves o’ the sea, Once closed they are closed for ever, Eilidh, lost, lost, for thee and me, Lost, lost, for thee and me.

Till death be filled with darkness And life be filled with light, The sorrow of ancient sorrows Shall be the Sorrow of Night: But then the sorrow of sorrows Shall be the Sorrow of Delight. Heart’s-joy must fade with sorrow, For both are sprung from clay: But the Joy that is one with Sorrow, Treads an immortal way: Each hath in fee To-morrow, And their soul is Yesterday. Joy that is clothed with shadow Is the Joy that is not dead: For the joy that is clothed with the rainbow Shall with the bow be sped: Where the Sun spends his fires is she, And where the Stars are led.

The wind is fair, the day is fine, And swiftly, swiftly runs the time, The boat is floating on the tide That wafts me off from Fiunary. Eirigh agus tingainn O! Eirigh agus tingainn O! Erigh agus tingainn O! Farewell, farewell to Fiunary! A thousand, thousand tender ties Awake this day my plaintive sighs, My heart within me almost dies To think of leaving Fiunary. Eirigh agus tingainn O! etc. With pensive steps I often strolled Where Fingal’s castle stood of old, And listened while the shepherd told The legend tales of Fiunary. Eirigh agus tingainn O! etc. I’ll often pause at close of day Where Ossian sang his martial lay, And viewed the sun’s departing ray Wandering o’er Dun Fiunary. Eirigh agus tingainn O! etc.

It wasna from a golden throne, Or a bower with milk-white roses blown, But mid the kelp on northern sand That I got a kiss of the king’s hand. I durstna raise my een tae see If he even cared to glance at me; His princely brow with care was crossed For his true men slain and kingdom lost. Think not his hand was soft and white, Or his fingers a’ with jewels dight, Or round his wrists were jewels grand When I got a kiss of the king’s hand. But dearer far tae my twa een Was the ragged sleeve of red and green O’er that young weary hand that fain, With the guid broadsword, had found its ain. Farewell for ever, the distance gray And the lapping ocean seemed to say— For him a home in a foreign land, And for me one kiss of the king’s hand.

The sky in beauty arch’d The wide and weltering flood, While the winds in triumph march’d Through their pathless solitude— Rousing up the plume on ocean’s hoary crest, That like space in darkness slept, When his watch old Silence kept, Ere the earliest planet leapt From its breast. A speck is on the deeps, Like a spirit in her flight; How beautiful she keeps Her stately path in light! She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee— The sun has on her smiled, And the waves, no longer wild, Sing in glory round that child Of the sea. ’Twas at the set of sun That she tilted o’er the flood, Moving like God alone O’er the glorious solitude— The billows crouch around her as her slaves How exulting are her crew!— Each sight to them is new, As they sweep along the blue Of the waves. Fair herald of the fleets That yet shall cross the waves, Till the earth with ocean meets One universal grave, What armaments shall follow thee in joy! Linking each distant land With trade’s harmonious band, Or bearing havoc’s brand To destroy!

I’m wearin’ awa, John, Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John, I’m wearin’ awa To the land o’ the leal. There’s nae sorrow there, John, There’s neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair In the land o’ the leal. Our bonnie bairn’s there, John, She was baith gude and fair, John, And, oh, we grudged her sair To the land o’ the leal. But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John, And joy’s a-comin’ fast, John, The joy that’s aye to last, In the land o’ the leal. Oh, dry your glist’ning ee, John, My saul langs to be free, John, And Angels beckon me To the land o’ the leal. O haud ye leal and true, John, Your day it’s wearin’ through, John, And I’ll welcome you To the land o’ the leal. Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John, The warld’s cares are vain, John, We’ll meet and we’ll be fain In the land o’ the leal.

My heart is yearning to thee, O Skye! Dearest of Islands! There first the sunshine gladdened my eye, On the sea sparkling; There doth the dust of my dear ones lie, In the old graveyard. Bright are the golden green fields to me, Here in the Lowlands; Sweet sings the mavis in the thorn-tree, Snowy with fragrance: But oh for a breath of the great North Sea, Girdling the mountains! Good is the smell of the brine that laves Black rock and skerry, Where the great palm-leaved tangle waves Down in the green depths, And round the craggy bluff pierced with caves Sea-gulls are screaming. Where the sun sinks beyond Humish Head, Crowning in glory, As he goes down to his ocean bed Studded with islands, Flushing the Coolin with royal red, Would I were sailing! Many a hearth round that friendly shore Giveth warm welcome; Charms still are there, as in days of yore, More than of mountains; But hearths and faces are seen no more, Once of the brightest. Many a poor black cottage is there, Grimy with peat smoke, Sending up in the soft evening air Purest blue incense, While the low music of psalm and prayer Rises to Heaven. Kind were the voices I used to hear Round such a fireside, Speaking the mother tongue old and dear, Making the heart beat With sudden tales of wonder and fear, Or plaintive singing. Great were the marvellous stories told Of Ossian’s heroes, Giants, and witches, and young men bold, Seeking adventures, Winning kings’ daughters and guarded gold, Only with valour. Reared in those dwellings have brave ones been; Brave ones are still there; Forth from their darkness on Sunday I’ve seen Coming pure linen, And like the linen the souls were clean Of them that wore it. See that thou kindly use them, O man! To whom God giveth Stewardship over them, in thy short span Not for thy pleasure; Woe be to them who choose for a clan Four-footed people! Blessings be with ye, both now and aye Dear human creatures! Yours is the love that no gold can buy! Nor time can wither, Peace be to thee and thy children, O Skye! Dearest of islands.

Waves of the wild North Sea, Breaking—breaking—breaking! From the dumb agony Of dreams awaking, How sweet within the loosened arms of sleep To lie in silence deep, Lone listening to your many-throated roar Along the caverned shore, In midnight darkness breaking—breaking—breaking! Wind of the wild North Sea, Calling—calling—calling! What may your message be, Rising and falling? From out the infinite ye make reply: “Whither? and whence? and why?” And my soul echoes the despairing moan— Which none can answer—none!— From out its depths abysmal calling—calling—calling.

Between the moaning of the mountain stream And the hoarse thunder of the Atlantic deep, An outcast from the peaceful realms of sleep I lie, and hear as in a fever-dream The homeless night-wind in the darkness scream And wail around the inaccessible steep Down whose gaunt sides the spectral torrents leap From crag to crag,—till almost I could deem The plaided ghosts of buried centuries Were mustering in the glen with bow and spear And shadowy hounds to hunt the shadowy deer, Mix in phantasmal sword-play, or, with eyes Of wrath and pain immortal, wander o’er Loved scenes where human footstep comes no more.

The hills slipped over each on each Till all their changing shadows died. Now in the open skyward reach The lights grow solemn side by side. While of these hills the westermost Rears high his majesty of coast In shifting waste of dim-blue brine And fading olive hyaline; Till all the distance overflows, The green in watchet and the blue In purple. Now they fuse and close— A darkling violet, fringed anew With light that on the mountain soars, A dusky flame on tranquil shores; Kindling the summits as they grow In audience to the skies that call, Ineffable in rest and all The pathos of the afterglow.

We’ll meet nae mair at sunset when the weary day is dune, Nor wander hame thegither by the lee licht o’ the mune. I’ll hear your steps nae langer amang the dewy corn, For we’ll meet nae mair, my bonniest, either at e’en or morn. The yellow broom is waving abune the sunny brae, And the rowan berries dancing where the sparkling waters play; Tho’ a’ is bright and bonnie it’s an eerie place to me, For we’ll meet nae mair, my dearest, either by burn or tree. Far up into the wild hills there’s a kirkyard lone and still, Where the frosts lie ilka morning and the mists hang low and chill. And there ye sleep in silence while I wander here my lane Till we meet ance mair in Heaven never to part again!

The bees about the Linden-tree, When blithely summer blooms were springing, Would hum a heartsome melody, The simple baby-soul of singing; And thus my spirit sang to me When youth its wanton way was winging: “Be glad, be sad—thou hast the choice— But mingle music with thy voice.” The linnets on the Linden-tree, Among the leaves in autumn dying, Are making gentle melody, A mild, mysterious, mournful sighing; And thus my spirit sings to me While years are flying, flying, flying: “Be sad, be sad, thou hast no choice, But mourn with music in thy voice.”

Weird wife of Bein-y-Vreich! horo! horo! Aloft in the mist she dwells; Vreich horo! Vreich horo! Vreich horo! All alone by the lofty wells. Weird, weird wife! with the long gray locks, She follows her fleet-foot stags, Noisily moving through splinter’d rocks, And crashing the grisly crags. Tall wife, with the long gray hose! in haste The rough stony beach she walks; But dulse or seaweed she will not taste, Nor yet the green kail stalks. * O I will not let my herd of deer, My bonny red deer go down; I will not let them go down to the shore, To feed on the sea-shells brown. Oh, better they love in the corrie’s recess, Or on mountain top to dwell, And feed by my side on the green, green cress, That grows by the lofty well. Broad Bein-y-Vreich is grisly and drear, But wherever my feet have been The well-springs start for my darling deer, And the grass grows tender and green. And there high up on the calm nights clear, Beside the lofty spring, They come to my call, and I milk them there, And a weird wild song I sing. But when hunter men round my dun deer prowl, I will not let them nigh; Through the rended cloud I cast one scowl, They faint on the heath and die. And when the north wind o’er the desert bare Drives loud, to the corries below I drive my herds down, and bield them there From the drifts of the blinding snow. Then I mount the blast, and we ride full fast, And laugh as we stride the storm, I, and the witch of the Cruachan Ben, And the scowling-eyed Seul-Gorm.

Ah bonnie darling, lift your dark eyes dreaming! See, the firelight fills the gloaming, though deep darkness grows without— Hush, dear, hush, I hear the sea-birds screaming, And down beyond the haven the tide comes with a shout! Ah, birdeen, sweetheart, sure he is not coming, He who has your hand in fee, while I have all your heart— Hush, dear, hush, I hear the wild bees humming Far away in the underworld where true love shall not part! Darling, darling, darling, all the world is singing, Singing, singing, singing a song of joy for me! Hush, dear, hush, what wild sea-wind is bringing Gloom o’ the sea about thy brow, athwart the eyes of thee? Ah, heart o’ me, darling, darling, all my heart’s aflame! Sure, at the last we are all in all, all in all we two! At the Door, A VOICE. This is the way I take my own, this is the boon I claim! (Later, in the dark, the living brooding beside the dead:—) Sure, at the last, ye are all in all, all in all, ye two— Ah, hell of my heart! Ye are dust to me—and dust with dust may woo!

My heart! my pulse! my flame! O the gloom, O the pain! He has no wish to save me Who will not come again. Love! Love! Love! The fair cheek, the dark hair, The promise forgotten; ’Twill go with me there. False! false! false! O, youth is false for ever: He loves far more than living me— The lifeless heather. The hunting field, The greenwood tree, The trout, the running deer, he loves, Far more than me. He loves—loves—loves To stalk the frightened doe; He never heeds the pain he gives, His skill to show. O, the dark blue eye— A flower wet with dew; O, the fair false face— Too sweet to view! Love! Love! Love! The fair cheek, the dark hair! For him I’d scale the walls of hell Gin he were there!