PART II (continued 2)

The honour o’er each hill Hath Ben Dorain; Scene, to me, the sweetest still That day dawns upon: Its long moor’s level way, And its nooks whence wild deer stray, To the lustre on the brae Oft I’ve lauded them. Dear to me its dusky boughs, In the wood where green grass grows, And the stately herd repose, Or there wander slow; But the troops with bellies white, When the chase comes into sight, Then I love to watch their flight, Going nosily. The stag is airy, brisk, and light, And no pomp has he; Though his garb’s the fashion quite, Never haughty he: Yet a mantle’s round him spread, Not soon threadbare, then shed, And its hue as wax is red— Fairly clothing him. The delight I felt to rise At the morning’s call! And to see the troops I prize The hills thronging all: Ten score with stately tread, And with light uplifted head, Quite unpampered there that fed, Fond and fawning all. Lightsomely there came From each clean and shapely frame, Through their murmuring lips, a tame Chant, with drawling fall. In the pool one rolled a low— With the hind one played the beau, As she trotted to and fro, Looking saucily. I would rather have the deer Gasping moaningly, Than all Erin’s songs to hear Sung melodiously; For above the finest bass Hath the stag’s sweet voice a grace, As he bellows on the face Of Ben Dorain. Loud and long he gives a roar From his very inmost core, Which is heard behind, before, Far and fallingly; But the hind of softer notes, With her calf that near her trots, Match each other’s tuneful throats, Crying longingly. Her eye’s soft and tender ray With no flaw in it, O’er whose lid the brow is gray, Guides her wandering feet: Very well she walks, and bold, Lively o’er the russet wold, Tripping from her desert hold Most undauntingly. Faultless is her pace, And her leap is full of grace— Ha! the last when in the race Never saw I her: When she takes yon startled stride, Nor once turns her head aside, Aught to match her hasty pride Is not known to me. But now she’s on the heath, As she ought to be, Where the tender grass she seeth, Growing dawtily; The dry bent, the moor grass bare, With the sappy herbs are there, That make fat, and full, and fair, Her plump quarters all. And those little wells are nigh, Where the water-cresses lie, Above wine she likes to try Their waves’ solacing; Of the rye-grass, twisted rows, On the rude hill side it grows, Than of rarest festal shows, Is she fonder far. The choice increase of the earth Forms her joyous treat; The primrose, St John’s wort, Tops of gowans sweet, The new buds of the groves, The soft heath o’er which she roves, Are the tit-bits that she loves, With good cause too. For speckled, spotted, rare, Tall, and fine, and fair, From such food before her there She grows sonsily; And it is still the surest mean To cure the weak ones and the lean, Who for any time have been Wasted, wan, and low. Soon it would clothe their back With the garb which most they lack— That rich fat, which they can pack Most commodiously. She’s a flighty young hind When leaves ward her, Nearer her haunts where they bind The brae border: Lightsome and urbane Is her gay heart, free of stain, Tho’ rash head and somewhat vain— Somewhat thoughtless. Yet her form, so full of grace, She keeps hiding in a place, Where the green glen shows no trace Of a falling off; But she’s so healthy, and so clean— So chaste where’er she’s seen— Should you kiss her lips, I ween ’Twould not cause you shame. Greatly prized is she, I know, By the stag with crested brow, Whose thundering hoofs around him throw Such a saucy sound; When with him she meets the view Red and yellow in her hue, And of virtues not a few That belong to her, Then too is she free of fear, And in speed without a peer, And the primest ear to hear In all Europe’s hers. Oh! how sweetly they embrace, Young and fawning, When they gather to their place In the gloaming; There, till silent night is by, Never terror comes them nigh, While beneath the bush they lie— Their known haunt of old. Let the wild herd seek their bed, Let them slumber, free of dread, Where yon mighty moor is spread, Broad and brawly; Where, with joy, I’ve often spied The sun colour their red hide, As they wandered in their pride O’er Ben Dorain.

From the rim it trickles down Of the mountain’s granite crown Clear and cool; Keen and eager though it go Through your veins with lively flow, Yet it knoweth not to reign In the chambers of the brain With misrule; Where dark water-cresses grow You will trace its quiet flow, With mossy border yellow, So mild, and soft, and mellow, In its pouring. With no shiny dregs to trouble The brightness of its bubble As it threads its silver way From the granite shoulders grey Of Ben Dorain. Then down the sloping side It will slip with glassy slide Gently welling, Till it gather strength to leap, With a light and foamy sweep, To the corrie broad and deep Proudly swelling; Then bends amid the boulders, ’Neath the shadow of the shoulders Of the Ben, Through a country rough and shaggy, So jaggy and so knaggy, Full of hummocks and of hunches, Full of stumps and tufts and bunches, Full of bushes and of rushes, In the glen, Through rich green solitudes, And wildly hanging woods With blossom and with bell, In rich redundant swell, And the pride Of the mountain daisy there, And the forest everywhere, With the dress and with the air Of a bride.

Alone on the hill-top, Sadly and silently, Downward on Islay And over the sea— I look and I wonder How time hath deceived me: A stranger in Muile[25] Who ne’er thought to be. Ne’er thought it, my island! Where rests the deep dark shade Thy grand mossy mountains For ages have made— God bless thee, and prosper! Thy chief of the sharp blade, All over these islands, His fame never fade! Never fade it, Sir Norman! For well ’tis the right Of thy name to win credit In council or fight; By wisdom, by shrewdness, By spirit, by might, By manliness, courage, By daring, by sleight. In council or fight, thy kindred Know these should be thine— Branch of Lochlin’s wide-ruling And king-bearing line! And in Erin they know it— Far over the brine: No Earl would in Albin Thy friendship decline. Yes! the nobles of Erin Thy titles well know, To the honour and friendship Of high and of low. Born the deed-marks to follow, Thy father did show,— That friend of the noble— That manliest foe. That friend of the noble— From him art thou heir To virtues which Albin Was proud to declare: Crown’d the best of her chieftains Long, long may’st thou wear The blossoms paternal His broad branches bare! O banner’d Clan Ruari! Whose loss is my woe, Of this chief who survives May I ne’er hear he’s low; But, darling of mortals! From him though I go, Long the shapeliest, comeliest Form may he show! The shapeliest, comeliest, Faultless in bearing— Cheerful, cordial, and kind, The red and white wearing, Well looks the blue-eyed chief; Blue, bright, and daring, His eye o’er his red cheek shines, Blue, bright, calmly daring. His red cheek shines, Like hip on the brier-tree, ’Neath the choicest of curly hair Waving and free. A warm hearth, a drinking cup, Meet shall he see, And a choice of good armour Whoe’er visits thee. Drinking-horns, trenchers bright, And arms old and new; Long, narrow-bladed swords, Cold, clear, and blue— These are seen in thy mansion, With rifles and carbines, too; And hempen-strung long-bows, Of hard, healthy yew. Long-bows and cross-bows, With strings that well wear; Arrows, with polish’d heads, In quivers full and fair, From the eagle’s wing feather’d, With silk fine and rare; And guns dear to purchase— Long slender—are there. My heart’s with thee, hero! May Mary’s son keep My stripling who loves The lone forest to sweep; Rejoicing to feel there The solitude deep Of the long moor and valley, And rough mountain steep. The mountain steep searching And rough rocky chains; The old dogs he caresses, The young dogs he restrains: Then, soon from my chieftain’s spear The life-blood rains Of the red-hided deer or doe And the green heather stains. Fall the red stag, the white-bellied doe; Then stand on the heather, Thy gentle companions, Well arm’d altogether, Well taught on the hunter’s craft, Well skill’d in the weather; They know the rough sea as well As the green heather!