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 GLEN DESSERAY 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 By J. C. SHAIRP
 
 O FOR truth-brcath6d music ! soul-like lays ! 
 Not of vain-glory born, nor love of praise, 
 But welling purely from profound heart-springs, 
 That lie deep down amid the life of things. 
 And singing on, heedless though mortal ear 
 Should never their lone murmur overhear !
 
 GLEN DESSERAY 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 LYRICAL AND ELEGIAC 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP 
 
 LL.D., LATE PRINXIPAL OF THE UNITED COLLEGE, ST. ANDREWS, AND 
 PROFESSOR OF POETRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 FRANCIS T. PALGRAVE 
 
 LL.D. EDINBURGH 
 
 Eontioii 
 
 
 ACMILLAN AND 
 
 CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK 
 
 
 1888 
 
 
 All rights rcso^fed 
 
 
 t J 

 
 4 
 
 
 a 
 
 53^9 
 
 se ^ 
 
 •5 TO THE author's EARLY FRIENDS 
 
 a WHO HAVE SURVIVED HIM : 
 
 U 
 
 TO THE FRIENDS OF LATER YEARS ; 
 ^ AND TO ALL WHO MISS HIS PRESENCE, 
 
 0> AND WHO VALUE HIS THOUGHTS, IN PROSE AND VERSE : 
 
 ec THESE POEMS 
 
 ^ ARE, FOR HIS SAKE, DEDICATED BY 
 
 E. S. 
 
 CO 
 
 410793
 
 PREFACE 
 
 In carrying out the labour of Io\e entrusted to me 
 by those most nearly connected with this much- 
 honoured and regretted Friend, my wish has been 
 to present such a selection from his published and 
 manuscript verse as shall do justice to one of the 
 most sincere and high-minded poets of our century. 
 Nothing, as the verdict of Time constantly but vainly 
 proves, is more insecure than contemporary' judgments 
 upon contemporary work in art and literature. In- 
 deed, " Fame herself," as a great critic observes, even 
 when she seems firmly established, "has but a short 
 memory." I shall therefore attempt no forecasting 
 or estimate of what Shairp's place in our poetry may 
 prove, beyond this, which can be safely hazarded ; — 
 that in the following poems no sensitive mind can 
 fail, to find the note of what his friend Matthew 
 Arnold has excellently described as distinction j — the 
 note of a pure, refined, modest originality. It is be- 
 yond question a voice, not an echo, which we hear. 
 Even in his ballad- songs, easily as that form invites 
 to imitation, Shairp preserves an individual quality ;
 
 viii PREFACE 
 
 nor, devoted as he was to Wordsworth, do we trace 
 in the lyrics more than a few shght reminiscences of 
 his manner. 
 
 In a (larland hke this, chosen, unhappily, from 
 the silent treasury of the dead, where but little cer- 
 tainty can be felt which pieces might have seemed to 
 the writer worthy preservation, my endeavour in 
 selecting has been to follow the only safe rule — admit 
 such poems alone as fairly seem on a level with the 
 poet's best work. A choice thus made is difficult, 
 and can hardly hope to satisfy every one. If, there- 
 fore, any readers — Scottish readers in particular — 
 find omissions to regret, let me ask their pardon on 
 the plea that I have tried to do what is most loyal to 
 Shairp's memory, and would far rather bear the blame 
 of bad taste on my own account, than follow those 
 deplorable e.xamples of exhaustive publication by 
 which a mistaken " Love of Letters " has too often 
 
 Swampt the sacred poets with themselves, — 
 
 sweeping -in the rejected fragments of the artist's 
 studio, and irreverently alloying with inferior ore the 
 pure gold of genius. 
 
 Although some short lyrics from the volume pub- 
 lished by Shairp in 1864 (under the title of the nar- 
 rative poem, Kilwahoc, which fills the larger portion 
 of it) have been included, yet the present book con-
 
 PREFACE 
 
 IX 
 
 tains in general the writer's maturer work, selected 
 either from the papers in the hands of his family, or 
 from pieces which have hitherto had only a magazine 
 publication. These latter I have regarded as bearing-, 
 on the whole, the seal of Shairp's approval. But his 
 own corrected copies, where possible, are here fol- 
 lowed ; whilst, in case of the manuscripts, which 
 have not always received the last touches of the 
 writer, I have ventured to omit a very few lines. 
 
 For the notes, glossarial and illustrative, I am 
 mainly indebted to the Rev. T. Sinton, Minister of 
 Glengarry, and to Mr. Bayne of Helensburgh. My 
 wish, at first, was to ask Mr. Sinton for a transliteration 
 into English sounds of the many Gaelic place-names 
 which occur. But a few specimens proved that this 
 would be well-nigh practically impossible in the case 
 of languages differing so deeply in their intonation. 
 And it may be feared that the ignorant indifference, 
 descending sometimes into stupid hostility, with which 
 the beautiful Celtic dialects yet surviving in our 
 islands are regarded by almost all except those to 
 whom they are mother-tongues, would have rendered 
 translation of the sound and the significance of 
 these relics of the past an almost useless and un- 
 valued labour. 
 
 It is also probable that some readers — in Scotland 
 especially — may find the foot-notes over numerous.
 
 X rUKFACK 
 
 Here I would plead that Poetry, in this age of facile 
 prose, requires every assistance to attract and hold 
 its audience. Better that fifty should find an explan- 
 ation superfluous, than one find a difficulty unsolved. 
 
 As the narrative of I^rincipal Shairp's life is in 
 other and more competent hands, it remains for me 
 now only to offer some brief words on the aim and 
 character of these poems, on their sentiment and 
 style. Such critical notes, it is almost a truism to 
 say, can never really be adequate. As it is with the 
 special perfume of rose or lily, so the quality by which 
 the melody of Mozart differs from that of Beethoven, 
 the charm with which the childless Reynolds rendered 
 the children of his canvas ; — Vergilian magic, even 
 when interpreted by the master-hand of Cardinal New- 
 man ; — Shakespearean felicity; — of all these things 
 the essence is indefinable, the secret inscrutable. 
 Through much of the Palace of Art our guides may 
 lead us ; but to the " inmost enchanted fountain " 
 — the mystery of the Maker — we never penetrate. 
 And stars of a lesser magnitude, if only they be 
 stars, shining with light of their own, each has also 
 a quality peculiar to itself, an influence not rained 
 from any other. This premised, let me take some 
 of the following poems, and try if I can put 
 into words some slight shadow of this influence, of
 
 PREFACE xi 
 
 this essence, so that those readers may enter into 
 them with greater facihty, to whom Shairp has been 
 hitherto unknown. And although a poet in the end 
 is his own best interpreter, yet in this case there is 
 the further reason for a short introduction, that the 
 ways and thoughts of the Highland peasantry, remote 
 and alien from most of us, — so far as the remorseless 
 wheels of the car of civilization have yet spared them, 
 — were my Friend's special care, and form everywhere 
 the moral atmosphere with which the wild landscape 
 of his native land is suffused and invested. 
 
 Glen Desseray is a little Epic, an Epyllion, as the 
 ancients said, of the Highlands. Into this poem, his 
 most sustained attempt, Shairp has thrown his deepest 
 feeling on the western mountain regions, — "the Visions 
 of the hills, And Souls of lonely places": — throughout 
 connecting the landscape, as it unfolds itself, with the 
 human interests of the story. The narrative covers 
 some sixty or seventy years from the middle of the 
 eighteenth century, setting before us, as its principal 
 theme, the romantic wanderings of Prince Charles 
 Edward, whilst passing through that cloud of danger 
 and defeat, when the noble and gallant elements of 
 his character shone forth most brilliantly ; — contrasted 
 with the scene of a Chief's return from exile ; followed 
 by a second gathering of clansmen for foreign service, 
 and, finally, by a glance at that "clearing of the 
 
 b
 
 xii PREFACE 
 
 glens " .which, during the last hundred years, has so 
 changed even the ver>' landscape of the Highlands: — 
 whilst incidental pictures of Gaelic life, manners, and 
 character add animation to the long and varied 
 tapestry which the poet has embroidered for us. 
 Since Walter Scott, who practically revealed, whilst 
 he in some sense created, the Highlands for his 
 countrymen, has any one — any poet, at least — put 
 them before us with such vividness, such charm, such 
 inner truth, as Shairp ? 
 
 Skill in devising plot has not at any time been 
 common among our poets ; their genius turns much 
 more to sentiment, character, or description ; and it 
 is in these elements that the strength of Glen Desscray 
 will be found. The narrative wanders discursively 
 down the stream of Time, whilst tracing the incidents 
 of the tale through the long glens of North-Western 
 Scotland. It has something of the labyrinthine aspect 
 of wild Nature, of her apparent aimlessness. But 
 throughout is felt one intense fervour of interest in 
 the land of the Gael and its romantic natives ; one 
 pure and lofty passion of patriotism. It has the unity 
 of sentiment, the unity of heart. 
 
 It may be noticed, as a fine stroke of art, that in 
 Shairp's first version of this poem a love-episode was 
 given in Cantos V and \T, but rejected in favour of 
 the more pathetic and unusual picture of Muriel's
 
 PREFACE xiii 
 
 sisterly devotion and the noble fervour of friendship 
 between Angus and Ronald ; which we may liken to 
 the similar groups of Chaucer's Palamon and Arcite, 
 the Amis and Ami! of the beautiful ancient French 
 legend, or the love between David and Jonathan, of 
 which the poet himself reminds us. 
 
 Description of nature forms a large portion of 
 Shairp's work. His landscape is indicated by brief 
 characteristic features, calling up in succession clear 
 images before the mind ; but there is little realistic 
 detail, no attempt at " word-painting " for its own sake. 
 And at e\ery instant the scene is connected with 
 human life or human feeling. It thus suggests a 
 picture, yet could not be reproduced on canvas. 
 Shairp, in a word, has followed that eternal aesthetic 
 canon of appropriateness, which demands that each of 
 the Fine Arts shall render its subject solely through 
 the method peculiar to itself 
 
 If we turn from the manner to the matter of 
 Shairp's landscape, in two marked features it seems 
 to differ from that of Wordsworth, asserting in these 
 its own originality, or, as we might also say, its ad- 
 herence to the actual facts. The narrow area of the 
 English Lake district contrasts with the wild Highland 
 regions by a finished beauty, a soft richness of effect, 
 an amenity, to put it in one significant word, which 
 can hardly be found elsewhere, I think, nearer than
 
 xiv rKKKACt: 
 
 the mountain lakes, — ie, Lari mnxumc, — and those 
 others, which are the charm of North-West Italy. It 
 was the wildness, tlic vast loca pastorum deserfa, the 
 asperity of desolation, the glory touched with gloom 
 of the Highland world, by which Shairp was pene- 
 trated. This aspect of the soul of Nature he has 
 characterized in his fine essay on Keble, when speak- 
 ing of "her infinite and unhuman side, which yields 
 no symbols to soothe man's yearnings." Nowhere, he 
 writes, is this "so borne in on man as in the midst of 
 the vast deserts of the earth, or in the presence of the 
 mountains, which seem so impassive and unchange- 
 able. Their strength and permanence so contrast 
 with man — of few years and full of trouble ; they are 
 so indifferent to his feelings or his destiny. He may 
 smile or weep, he may live or die ; they care not. 
 They are the same in all their ongoings, happen what 
 will to him. They respond to the sunrises and the 
 sunsets, but not to his sympathies. All the same they 
 fulfil their mighty functions, careless though no human 
 eye should ever look on them." 
 
 How different is this tone from that habitual with 
 Wordsworth ! To him, the sympathy between the 
 outer world and the inner world of man, the echo 
 and the lessons with which the landscape almost 
 consciously responds to the human heart, the pene- 
 tration of all Nature by the
 
 PREFACE XV 
 
 Being that is in the clouds and air, 
 are the central ideas and convictions of his soul. 
 But the note struck in the words above quoted 
 from Shairp is dominant in his own landscape-work, 
 and it corresponds with the human sentiment which, 
 — as must always be found in true landscape, 
 whether painted in words or in colours, — atmo- 
 spheres every picture. The disappearance of the 
 old Highland life ; of the clans, not indeed as they 
 were in the lawless years of old, but in their later 
 pastoral phase ; the clearing of the glens under a long 
 train of circumstances which I can only note without 
 discussion, — all these features of human activity and 
 joy and desolation seem to supply a soul to his deline- 
 ation of scenery, in harmony with its innermost char- 
 acter. What the memorj' of the lost friend was to 
 Tennyson in his great lyrical elegy, the warmth of 
 tender sympathy, of chastened enthusiasm for the Gael, 
 is in the poems before us. We have here the second 
 point of difference from Wordsworth. For that great 
 poet, we know, more or less saw his own heart, his own 
 thoughts and emotions, mirrored for him in Nature ; 
 not, indeed, in that mood of a somewhat morbid sadness 
 which, also, has lent a charm and interest of its own to 
 some splendid poetry of the latter days, — a Childe 
 Harold or an Alastor, — but with a sanity and breadth 
 of view which lifts his landscape above mere " subject-
 
 xvi PREFACE 
 
 i\e " imaginings. Wordsworth, speaking for and from 
 himself, speaks most often for humanity in general ; he 
 has, we might perhaps say, an impersonal personality. 
 He learned much, doubtless, from his simple-hearted 
 neighbours : but they are rarely part of his landscape. 
 Vox hominein sonat j " Men, as they are men within 
 themselves," so far as his experience went, — not the 
 men of Westmoreland, were Wordsworth's real theme. 
 There are passages, of course, in which Shairp's 
 own feeling for nature, his own deep and large-hearted 
 religious faith, reveal themselves. Such is the strik- 
 ing reflection in Glen Desseray (C. iii, 5), where he 
 touches on the blankness felt, when, in some scene to 
 which we have eagerly come, filled with the remem- 
 brance of a glorious Past, we find no trace of human 
 sentiment or human deed surviving ; in the Return 
 to Nature; or the profoundly -imagined Wilderness. 
 So, again, in those poems where a peculiar tenderness 
 of personal sympathy gives its tone to the landscape ; 
 as in the Three Friends in Yarrow, the Spring, 1876, 
 and the lovely Bush aboon Traquair, — distinguished 
 above all Shairp's early lyrics by such gracious 
 exquisiteness of sentiment and melody, that it should 
 singly be enough to ensure him an abiding place in 
 that unique and delightful company, — the song- 
 writers of Scotland. Yet, in his poems of this class, 
 self is never the leading note ; and, on a survey
 
 PREFACE xvii 
 
 of his whole work, it must be felt that, within the 
 measure of his faculty, Shairp ranks in the great army, 
 — the greater army (I should venture to call it), — of 
 " objective " poets. 
 
 To this sphere, at any rate, conclusively belong 
 many of the latter pieces in this volume. The very 
 few brief songs it presents, which, if not strictly 
 ballads, have sprung from the ballad, and are its fine 
 flower in a more condensed and lyrical form, — the 
 Cailleach, the Devorgidlla (despite its trochaic metre, 
 with the peculiar difficulties of which Shairp, like 
 Wordsworth before him, seems to me to contend in 
 vain), the graceful Hairst Rig, — all " found " (to follow 
 a convenient Scottish usage) on reality ; all have an 
 underground, not of mere sentiment, the common de- 
 fect in such songs, but of true individuality. But as the 
 most noteworthy specimen of Shairp's power in this field 
 we may rank the dialogue Lost on Schihallion. This 
 has a tragic pathos, a holy simplicity and grandeur as 
 of Nature herself, which make it a fit companion picture 
 to Lady Anne Lindsay's well-known masterpiece. 
 
 The power shown in these little lyrics, — and, 
 under a different guise, in the ode on the Battle of 
 the Alma, — may make us regret that Shairp did not 
 write more upon such directly " objective " subjects. 
 In them he has not that flash and movement of life 
 wherein Scott is well-nigh alone amongst our nine-
 
 xviii PREFACE 
 
 tccnlh century poets. Vet these ballad-verses (to 
 which the Dyeing and Weaving of the Plaid, in the 
 Fifth Canto of Glen Desscray, may be added), display 
 a measure of Scott's Homeric simplicity and down- 
 right current of narration ; a truly Greek abstinence 
 from decoration for decoration's sake. The poet's 
 eye is on his object, and his object alone ; the verse 
 has the peculiar charm of disinterestedness; a quality 
 which, I think, can only be imparted to his work by 
 a soul completely freed and purified from egotism. 
 
 It is the presence of such a soul, — to touch here a 
 deeper note, — that we feel in those strains of higher 
 mood which close the book ; although, as with poetry 
 of this order is inevitable, the voice comes from the 
 inner world of personal thought and the heart's deep- 
 est feelings. In these poems Shairp, I think, had 
 often before his mind the words or writings of our highly 
 loved and admired Arthur Clough. Shairp, indeed, 
 enjoyed a healthy happiness of faith, which, in the 
 beautiful verse left us by Clough, — "too cruelly 
 distraught," and dying too soon, — may be less per- 
 ceptible ; but they both 
 
 pii Vales et Phoebo digna locuti, 
 upon every line of their "soul-songs" have set the 
 same stamp of an absolute sincerity. 
 
 These large-hearted poems, however, are best left 
 to speak for themselves. Clough's name carries us
 
 PREFACE xix 
 
 to that remaining section of Shairp's work, in which, 
 again, he may claim a field of his own, little laboured 
 by recent English writers. The large simplicity of 
 his style, his strongly- marked "objective" habit of 
 mind, are nowhere better seen than in the Character 
 Pieces, as I have ventured to entitle them. Many 
 readers in England will recognize the skill of por- 
 traiture in the Balliol Scholars; to the faithfulness of 
 which, having myself been privileged not long after 
 to enter the same gifted company, I can bear witness. 
 It is, truly, a group drawn with the gracious insight 
 of a judgment evenly poised between discernment 
 and sympathy; — the love of truthfulness, and the 
 truthfulness that only comes of love. 
 
 Those, doubtless, who knew the Highland Studeiits 
 whom Shairp taught and commemorated, would find 
 in his three monumental elegies the same sympathetic 
 fidelity. None of his work seems to me more ori- 
 ginal, more entirely his own, than this little series ; 
 and in the management of that most difficult of all our 
 metres— the blank verse — it is eminently successful. 
 Wordsworth's magnificent Michael must, indeed, have 
 been in his mind when he framed these clear-cut and 
 tender memorials ; but the disciple was worthy of 
 the master. 
 
 Returning now for a moment to the leading poem : — 
 It will, I think, be felt that Glen Desseray is eminently
 
 XX PREFACE 
 
 characteristic both of Shairp's own "aspects of 
 poetry," and of his own work as a poet. In the 
 beautiful volume of Lectures given from the Chair in 
 which, non passibus aequis, it has been my sad honour 
 to follow the Friend too early summoned to the Life 
 Unseen, he has defined the qualities which, to his 
 mind, were central in Poetry : — 
 
 " One of the first characteristics of the genuine 
 and healthy poetic nature is this — it is rooted rather 
 in the heart than in the head. Human-heartedness 
 is the soil from which all its other gifts originally 
 grow, and are continually fed. The true poet is not 
 an eccentric creature, not a mere artist living only for 
 art, not a dreamer or a dilettante, sipping the nectar 
 of existence while he keeps aloof from its deeper 
 interests. He is, above all things, a man among his 
 fellow-men, with a heart that beats in sympathy with 
 theirs, only larger, more open, more sensitive, more 
 intense." And again : " Whenever the soul comes 
 vividly in contact with any fact, truth, or existence, 
 whenever it realises and takes them home to itself 
 with more than common intensity, out of that meeting 
 of the soul and its object there arises a thrill of joy, 
 a glow of emotion ; and the expression of that glow, 
 that thrill, is poetry." 
 
 In a similar train of thought, putting always the 
 natural expression of the heart as his first and last
 
 PREFACE XXI 
 
 requirement, Shairp elsewhere draws a decided line, 
 — a line which I venture to think too decided, — be- 
 tween what he speaks of as the "pure" and the 
 " ornate " styles in Poetry, — epithets which, indeed, in 
 accordance with the passages just quoted, reveal the 
 style that he loved and practised, but by which the 
 knot of the question is rather cut than loosened. 
 Hence it may, I think, be said of Shairp that his bias 
 rendered him in some degree unwilling or unable to 
 recognize, with all its due force, that Poetry, in 
 Florizel's phrase, 
 
 Is an art 
 Which does mend Nature, — change it rather ; but 
 The art itself is nature. 
 
 It was doubtless due in some degree to this deep- 
 seated mode of regarding poetry that in Shairp's 
 work we may at times find an apparent carelessness 
 in the choice of words, a want of finish in style, 
 an absence of that evenness in metrical flow which 
 the ear demands. Truly might he have said of 
 himself, with Dante, while still on the Mount of 
 Probation — 
 
 Id mi son un che, quando 
 Amore spira, noto, ed a quel modo 
 Ch' ei detta dentro, vo significando. 
 
 These little lapses, — these proofs of natural freshness
 
 xxii PREFACE 
 
 and freedom, we might also better say, — are perhaps 
 seen most in his carHer verse ; in regard to the later, 
 we must recollect that the chords of the harp were 
 broken, before the minstrel could complete his melody. 
 
 Qui mai piu no ; ma rivedrenne altrove. 
 
 F. T. P. 
 /</;/. 9, iSSS
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 LYRICS OF HIGHLAND LIFE AND 
 LANDSCAPE 
 
 Glen Desseray ; or, The Sequel of Culloden- 
 
 Canto First — The Chief Restored 
 
 Canto Second — Bothain-Airidh ; or, The Shealings 
 
 Canto Third — On the Track of the Prince 
 
 Canto Fourth — The Home by Lochourn 
 
 Canto Fifth — The War Summons 
 
 Canto Sixth — The Soldier's Return 
 
 The Mountain Walk . 
 
 A Dream of Glen-Sallach 
 
 The Moor of Rannoch 
 
 The Lass of Loch Linne 
 
 The Forest of Sli'-Gaoil 
 
 Return to Nature 
 
 Cailleach Bein-y-Vreich 
 
 Desolation . 
 
 A Cry from Craig-Ellachie 
 
 Ben Cruachan 
 
 PAGE 
 
 22 
 36 
 
 45 
 53 
 68 
 
 88 
 
 98 
 
 100 
 
 104 
 
 106 
 
 108 
 
 no 
 
 112 
 
 114 
 
 119
 
 xxiv CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 PACE 
 
 On visiting Druim-a Liatii 
 
 . 124 
 
 SCHIHALLION 
 
 . 128 
 
 ToRRiDON Glen 
 
 130 
 
 Loch Torridon 
 
 • 134 
 
 Prognostic 
 
 • »39 
 
 The Wilderness 
 
 140 
 
 The Highland Rivek . 
 
 • 144 
 
 Lost on Schihallion . 
 
 . 146 
 
 Wild Flowers in June 
 
 . 149 
 
 Alt Cuchin Doun . . . . 
 
 . 157 
 
 The Shepherd's House 
 
 • 159 
 
 Autumn in the Highlands — 
 
 
 October 
 
 . 162 
 
 Garth Castle 
 
 . 164 
 
 Clatto 
 
 . . 167 
 
 Auchmore 
 
 . 170 
 
 Drumuachdar 
 
 . 172 
 
 LOWLAND LYRICS 
 
 The Bush aboon Traquair .... 179 
 
 Thrieve Castle 182 
 
 Devorguilla ; or the Abbey of the Sweet 
 
 Heart 185 
 
 Then and Now 188
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 XXV 
 
 The Blue Bells . 
 
 The Hairst Rig . 
 
 Manor Water 
 
 Song of the South Countree 
 
 Three Friends in Yarrow 
 
 PAGE 
 
 191 
 193 
 
 195 
 198 
 201 
 
 CHARACTER PIECES 
 
 Balliol Scholars, 1840-1843 .... 209 
 Dean Stanley at St. Andrews. . . .221 
 
 The Death of Prince Albert .... 223 
 
 On the Death of Sir James Simpson . . 225 
 
 Spring, 1876 228 
 
 Highland Students — 
 
 I 231 
 
 n 236 
 
 in 242 
 
 VARIA 
 
 The Battle of the Alma . 
 
 . 249 
 
 Grasmere 
 
 • 253 
 
 Parting 
 
 • 254 
 
 Poetic Truth 
 
 . . 256 
 
 Prayer 
 
 • 257 
 
 Relief 
 
 . . 25S
 
 xxvi CONTENTS 
 
 I'AGE 
 
 Memories 259 
 
 Hidden Life 262 
 
 " I HAVE A Life" 264 
 
 " 'twixt gleams of joy " 265 
 
 Illustrative Notes 269 
 
 Index of First Lines ..... 277 
 
 I
 
 LYRICS OF HIGHLAND LIFE 
 AND LANDSCAPE 
 
 B 
 
 5^
 
 GLEN DESSERAY; 
 
 OR 
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN ' 
 
 CANTO FIRST 
 THE CHIEF RESTORED 
 
 I 
 
 Eighty years have come and gone 
 Since on the dark December night, 
 East and west Glen Desseray shone 
 
 With fires illumining holm and height 
 
 A sudden and a marvellous sight ! 
 Never since dread Culloden days 
 The Bens 2 had seen such beacons blaze ; 
 But those were lurid, boding bale 
 And vengeance on the prostrate Gael, 
 These on the tranquil night benign, 
 
 ^ For the scheme and idea of this Poem, see Note at end. 
 - Bens, used of the loftier mountains.
 
 GLEN DESSERAY, OR 
 
 As with a festal gladness, shine. 
 One from the knoll that shuts the glen 
 Flings down the loch a beard of fire ; 
 Up on the braesides,^ homes of men 
 Answer each other, high and higher, 
 Across the valley with a voice 
 Of light that shouts, Rejoice, Rejoice, 
 Nor less, within, the red torch-pine 
 And peat-fires piled on hearth combine 
 To brighten rafters glossy-clear 
 With lustre strange for many a year. 
 And blithe sounds since the Forty-five 
 Unheard within these homes revive. 
 Now with the pibroch, now with song. 
 Driving the night in joy along. 
 What means it all ? how can it be 
 Such sights and sounds of revelry 
 From a secluded silent race 
 Break on the solitary place ? 
 That music sounds, these beacons bum 
 — In honour of a Chief's return. 
 
 II 
 
 Long had our people sat in gloom 
 Within their own Glen Desseray, 
 O'er-shadowed by the cloud of doom 
 ^ Braesides, hillsides. 
 
 I
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 
 
 That gathered on that doleful day, 
 When ruin from Culloden moor 
 The hills of Albyn darkened o'er, 
 From east to west, from shore to shore. 
 No loyal home in glen or strath 
 But felt the red-coats' vengeful wrath ; 
 Yet most on these our glens it fell, 
 They that had served the Prince so well ; 
 Who first the friendless Prince had hailed, 
 When his foot touched the Moidart strand. 
 And last had sheltered, ere he sailed 
 Forever from his Father's land. 
 
 Ill 
 
 No home in all this glen but mourned 
 Some loved one laid in battle low ; 
 Who from the headlong rout returned 
 
 Reserved for heavier woe, 
 From their own hills with helpless gaze 
 Beheld their flocks by spoilers driven, 
 Their roofs with ruthless fires ablaze, 
 
 Reddening the dark night heaven. 
 Some on the mountains hunted dowTi 
 With their blood stained the heather brown. 
 And many more were driven forth 
 Lorn exiles from their native earth ; 
 While he, the gentle and the brave
 
 GLEN DESSERAV, OR 
 
 Lochiel, who led ihcin, doomed to bide 
 
 A life-long exile, found a grave 
 
 Far from his own Loch Arkaig side. 
 
 And when at last war guns were hushed, 
 
 And back to wasted farms they fared, 
 
 With bitter memories, spirits crushed, 
 
 The few, whom sword and famine spared, 
 
 Saw the old order banished, saw 
 
 The old clan-ties asunder torn, 
 
 For their chief's care a factor's scorn, 
 
 And iron rule of Saxon law. 
 
 One rent to him constrained to bring, 
 
 " The German lairdie," called a king ; 
 
 They o'er the sea in secret sent 
 
 To their own Chief another rent 
 
 In his far place of banishment. 
 
 IV 
 
 When forty years had come and gone, 
 At length on lone Glen Desseray shone 
 A day like sudden spring new-born 
 From the womb of winter dark and lorn. 
 The day for which all hearts had yearned. 
 With tidings of their Chief returned. 
 Yea, spring-like on that wintry time, 
 The tidings came from southron clime, 
 That he their leal long-exiled lord 
 
 I
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 
 
 Ere long would meet their hearts' desires, 
 Their chieftain to his own restored 
 Another home would re-instate, 
 Would build the house long desolate — 
 The ruined home where dwelt his sires : 
 Not he who led the fatal war, 
 No ! nor his son — they sleep afar, 
 But sprung from the old heroic tree 
 An offshoot in the third degree. 
 
 V 
 
 It wakened mountain, loch, and glen, 
 That cry — " Lochiel comes back again ; " 
 Loch Leven and Loch Linnhe's shore 
 Shout to the head of Nevis Ben, 
 The crags and corries ^ of Mkmore 
 Rang to that word, "He comes again." 
 High up along Lochaber Braes 
 Fleeter than fiery cross it sped. 
 The Great Glen heard with glad amaze 
 And rolled it on to Loch Askaig-head. 
 From loch to hill the tidings spread, 
 And smote with joy each dwelling place 
 Of Camerons — clachan,^ farm, and shiel,^ 
 And the long glens that interlace 
 
 1 Carries, deep circular hollows in the hills, 
 - Clachan, village. ^ Shiel, shepherd's hut, chalet.
 
 GLEN DESSERAV, OR 
 
 The mountains piled benoith Lochie!. 
 
 Glen-Mallie and Glen-Camgarie 
 
 Resounded to the joyful cry, 
 
 Westward with the sunset fleeing, 
 
 It roused the homes of green Glenpean ; 
 
 Glen Kinzie tossed it on — unbarred 
 
 It swept o'er rugged Mim-Clach-Ard, 
 
 Start at these sounds the rugged bounds 
 
 Of Arisaig, Moidart, I\Iorar, and Knoydart, 
 
 Down to the ocean's misty bourn 
 
 By dark Loch Nevish and Lochourn. 
 
 VI 
 
 Many a heart that news made glad, 
 Hearts that for years scant gladness had, 
 But him it gladdened more than all. 
 The Patriarch of Glen Desseray, 
 Dwelling where sunny Sheneval 
 From the green braeside fronts noon-day. 
 My grandsire, Ewen Cameron, then 
 Numbering three score years and ten. 
 Of all our clansmen still alive, 
 None in the gallant Forty-five 
 Had borne a larger, nobler part. 
 
 Had seen or suffered more ; 
 Thenceforward on no living heart 
 
 Was graven richer store
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 
 
 Of mournful memories and sublime, 
 Gleaned from that wild adventurous time. 
 
 VII 
 
 For when the Prince's summons called, 
 
 Answered to that brave appeal 
 No nobler heart than Archibald, 
 
 Brother worthy of Lochiel. 
 Him following fain, my grandsire flew 
 To the gathering by Loch Shiel, 
 Thence a foster-brother true 
 Followed him through woe and weal. 
 Nothing could these two divide. 
 Marching forward side by side, 
 Two friends, each of the other sure, — 
 Through Prestonpans and Falkirk Muir. 
 But when on dark Culloden day 
 A wounded man Gillespie lay, 
 My grandsire bore him to the shore 
 And helped him over seas away. 
 Seven years went by ; less fiercely burned 
 The conqueror's vengeance 'gainst the Gael- 
 Gillespic Cameron fain returned 
 
 To see his native vale. 
 Waylaid and captured on his road 
 
 By the basest souls alive. 
 His blood upon the scaffold flowed,
 
 10 GLEN DESSEKAV, OK 
 
 Last victim of the Forty-five. 
 Thenceforth wrapt in speechless gloom 
 
 Ewen mourned that lovely head ; 
 His heart become a living tomb 
 
 Haunted by memory of the dead. 
 Never more from his lips fell 
 Name of him he loved so well, 
 But the less lie spake, the more his heart 
 'Mid these sad memories dwelt apart. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Rut when on lone Glen Desseray broke 
 The first flash of that joyous cry, 
 From his long dream old Ewen woke — 
 
 I wot his heart leapt high. 
 No news like that had fallen on him, 
 Within his cabin smoky dim 
 For forty summers long and more. 
 Straightway beyond his cottage door 
 He sprang and gazed, the white hair o'er 
 His shoulders streaming, and the last 
 Wild sunset gleam on his worn cheek cast 
 He looked and saw his Marion turn 
 Home from the well beside the burn. 
 And cried, " Good tidings ! Thou and I 
 Will see our Chief before we die." 
 That night they talked, how many a year
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN ii 
 
 Had gone, since the last Lochiel was here, 
 How gentle hearts and brave had been 
 The old Lochiels their youth had seen ; 
 Aye as they spake, more hotly burned 
 The fire within them — back returned 
 Old days seemed ready to revive 
 That perished in the Forty-five. 
 That night ere Ewen laid his head 
 On pillow, to his wife he said : 
 "Yule-time is near, for many a year 
 Mirth-making through the glens hath ceased, 
 But the clan once more, as in days of yore, 
 Shall hold this Yule with game and feast." 
 
 IX 
 
 Next morning, long ere screech o' day, 
 Old Ewen roused hath ta'en the brae 
 With gun on shoulder, and the boy, 
 Companion of his toils and joy. 
 The dark-haired Angus by his side — 
 O'er the black braes o' Glen Kinzie, on 
 Among the mists with slinging stride 
 They fare, nor stayed till they had won 
 Corrie-na-Gaul, the cauldron deep 
 Which the Lochiels were used to keep 
 A sanctuary where the deer might hide. 
 And undisturbed all year abide.
 
 12 GLEN DESSERAY, OR 
 
 Not a cranny, rock, or stone 
 In that corrie but was known 
 To my grandsire's weird grey eye ; 
 All the lairs where large stags lie 
 Well he knew, but passed them by, 
 For stags were lean ere yule-time grown. 
 Crawling on, he saw appear 
 O'er withered fern one twinkling ear — 
 His gun is up — the crags resound — 
 Startled, a hundred antlers bound 
 Up the passes fast away ; 
 Lifeless stretched along the ground. 
 Large and sleek, one old hind lay. 
 Straight they laid her on their backs, 
 And o'er the hills between them bore, 
 Up and down by rugged tracks. 
 Sore-wearied, ere beside their door 
 They laid her down — " A bonny beast 
 To crown our coming yule-time feast " — 
 As night came down on scour' and glen. 
 From rough Scour-hoshi-brachcalen. 
 
 X 
 
 That night they slept the slumber sound 
 That waits on labour long and sore ; 
 Next day he sent the message round 
 1 Scour, high projecting rock.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 13 
 
 The glen from door to door, 
 On to the neighbouring glens — Glenpean 
 The summons hears, and all that be in 
 Glen Kinzie's bounds — Loch Arkaig, stirred 
 From shore to shore the call has heard ; 
 To Clunes it passed, from toun to toun,i 
 That all the people make them boun 2 
 Against the coming New-Year's-Day, 
 To gather for a shinty fray^ 
 Within the long Glen Desseray, 
 And meet at night round Ewen's board, 
 In honour of Lochiel restored. 
 
 XI 
 
 Blue, frosty, bright, the morning rose 
 
 That New Year's day above the snows, 
 
 Veiling the range of Scour and Ben, 
 
 That either side wall in the glen. 
 
 But down on the Strath the night frost keen 
 
 Had only crisped the long grass green. 
 
 When the men of Loch Arkaig, boat and oar 
 
 At Kinloch leaving, sprang to shore. 
 
 Crisp was the sward beneath their tread 
 
 As they westward marched, and at their head 
 
 The Piper of Achnacarry blew 
 
 ^ Tou?i, farm, or township. 
 2 Boun, ready. ^ Shinty fray, see Note at end.
 
 14 GLEN DESSERAV, OR 
 
 The thrilling pibroch of Donald Dhu. 
 
 That challenge the Piper of the Cilcn 
 
 As proudly sounded back again 
 
 From his biggest pipe, till far ofif rang 
 
 The tingling crags to the wild war-clang 
 
 Of the pibroch that loud to battle blown 
 
 The Cameron clan had for ages known. 
 
 To-day, as other, yet the same. 
 
 It summons to the peaceful game ; 
 
 From the braeside homes down trooping come 
 
 The champions of Glen Desseray, some 
 
 In tartan philabegs arrayed — 
 
 The garb which tyrant laws forbade, 
 
 But still they clung to, unafraid ; 
 
 Some in home-woven artan trews. 
 
 Rough spun, and dyed with various hues. 
 
 By mother's hands or maiden's wrought, 
 
 In hues by native fancy taught ; 
 
 But all with hazel camags^ slung 
 
 Their shoulders o'er, men old and young. 
 
 With mountaineer's long slinging pace, 
 
 Move cheerily down to the trysting-place. 
 
 XII 
 
 Yonder a level space of ground — 
 Two miles and more from west to east, 
 ^ Camag, the Gaelic for a club. — J. C. S. 
 
 i 
 
 1
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 15 
 
 Where from rough Mkm-Clach-Ard released 
 
 In loopi on loop the river wound, 
 
 Through many a slow and lazy round, 
 
 Ere plunging downward to the lake. 
 
 On that long flat of green they take 
 
 Their stations ; on the west the men 
 
 Of Desseray, Kinzie, Pean Glen, 
 
 Ranged 'gainst the stalwart lads who bide 
 
 Down long Loch Arkaig, either side. 
 
 The ground was ta'en, the dock struck ten. 
 
 As Ewen, patriarch of the glen, 
 
 Struck off, and sent the foremost ball 
 
 Down the Strath flying, with a cry ; 
 
 " Fye, lads, set on," and one and all 
 
 To work they fell right heartily. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Now fast and furious on they drive, — 
 Here youngsters scud with feet of wind. 
 There in a melee dunch^ and strive ; 
 The veterans outlook keep behind. 
 Now up, now down, the ball they toss ; 
 Now this, now that side of the Strath ; 
 And many a leaper, brave to cross 
 The river, finds a chilling bath ; 
 
 ^ Loop, see Note at end. 
 - Dunch, swing and plunge forward.
 
 i6 GLEN DESSERAV, OR 
 
 And many a fearless driver bold, 
 To win renown, was sudden rolled 
 
 Headlong in hid quagmire ; 
 And many a stroke of stinging pain 
 In the close press was given and ta'en 
 
 Without or guile or ire. 
 So all the day the clansmen played, 
 And to and fro their tulzie ^ swayed, 
 Untired, along the hollow vale, 
 And neither side could win the hail ;2 
 But high the clamour, upward flung. 
 Along the precipices rung, 
 And smote the snowy peaks, and went 
 Far up the azure firmament. 
 All day, too, watching from the knowes, 
 Stood maidens fair, with snooded brows. 
 
 And bonny blithe wee bairns ; 
 Those watching whom I need na say, 
 These eyeing now their daddies play. 
 
 Now jinking^ round the cairns. 
 
 XIV 
 
 The loud game fell with sunset still, 
 
 And echo died on strath and hill ; 
 
 As gloamin' deepened, each side the glen, 
 
 ^ Tulzie, scuffle. - Ilail, goal. 
 
 ^ Jinking, turning and darting to escape being caught.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODExNT 17 
 
 High above the homes of men, 
 Blinks of kindhng fires were seen, 
 Such as shine out upon Hallowe'en ; 
 Single fires on rocky shelf 
 Each several farm-house for itself 
 Has lighted — there in wavering line 
 Either side the vale they shine 
 From dusk to dawn, to blaze and burn 
 In welcome of their Chief's return. 
 But broader, brighter than the rest, 
 
 Down beside Loch-Arkaig-head, 
 From a knoll's commanding crest 
 
 One great beacon flaring red, 
 As with a wedge of splendour clove 
 The blackness of the vault above. 
 And far down the quivering waters flung 
 
 Forward its steady pillar of light. 
 To tell, more clear than trumpet tongue. 
 
 Glen Desseray hails her Chief to-night. 
 
 XV 
 
 The while the bonfires blazed without. 
 
 With logs and peats by keen hands fed — 
 
 Children and men — a merry rout ; 
 In every home the board was spread. 
 
 On ev'ry hearth the fires burned clear. 
 
 And round and round abundant cheer 
 c
 
 i8 GLEN DESSERAV, OK 
 
 Passed freely for tlie men who came 
 From distant glens to join the game. 
 Freely that feast flowed — most of all 
 In the old home at Sheneval ; 
 There Ewen Cameron, seated high, 
 
 Welcomed a \arious company. 
 Flower of the glens — old men, his peers, 
 White with the snows of seventy years ; 
 And clansmen, strong in middle age, 
 And sprightly youths in life's first stage — 
 Down to his own bright dark-haired boy. 
 Who, seated in a chimney nook. 
 
 To his inmost bosom took 
 The impress of that night of joy. 
 
 XVI 
 
 He feasted them with the venison fine 
 Himself had brought from Corrie-na-Gaul, 
 And sent around the ruddy wine, 
 
 High spiced, in antique bowl — 
 Rare wine, which to the Western Isles 
 
 Ships of France in secret bore. 
 Thence through Skye and o'er the Kyles, 
 
 Brought to the mainland shore. 
 Far back that night their converse ran 
 To the old glories of the clan ; 
 The battles, where in mortal feud
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 19 
 
 Clan Cameron 'gainst Clan Chattan stood ; 
 
 And great Sir Ewen, huge of frame, 
 
 'Mid loyal hearts the forempst name, 
 
 How, yet a boy, he gave his heart 
 
 To the King's cause and great Montrose ; 
 
 How hand to hand, in tangled den 
 
 He closed with Cromwell's staunchest men, 
 
 And conqueror from the death-grips rose : 
 
 How the war-summons of Dundee 
 
 In hoary age he sprang to meet — 
 
 Dashed with his clan in headlong charge 
 
 Down Killiecrankie's cloven gorge 
 
 To victory deadlier than defeat. 
 
 At these old histories inly burned 
 
 The heart of Ewen — back returned 
 
 The vigour of long-vanished years, 
 
 A youth he stood 'mid hoary peers. 
 
 Even as in autumn you have seen 
 
 Some ancient pine alone look green 
 
 'Mid all the wasted wood's decay ; 
 Some pine, that having summer long 
 Repaired its verdure, fresh and strong 
 
 Waits the bleak winter day. 
 
 XVII 
 
 As Ewen's spirit caught the glow 
 Cast from the heights of long ago.
 
 20 
 
 GLEN DESSERAY, OR J 
 
 His own old memories became 1 
 
 Within his heart a living flame ; 
 
 And, bursting the reserve that long 
 
 Had kept them down, broke forth in song. 
 
 " What an August morn that was ! 
 
 Think na' ye our hearts were fain,' 
 Branking down the Cuernan Pass, 
 To Glenfinnan's trysting-plain ; 
 
 2 
 
 " W^here the glen lies open,— where 
 
 Spread the blue waves of Loch Shiel- 
 Lealest hearts alone were there, 
 Keppoch, Moidart, brave Lochiel ; 
 
 3 
 "There was young Clanranald true- 
 Crowding all round Scotland's Heir- 
 Him, the Lad with bonnet blue 
 And the long bright yellow hair. 
 
 4 
 " Kingly look that morn he wore 
 In our Highland garb arrayed. 
 By his side the broad claymore. 
 O'er his brow the white cockade, 
 1 Fain, eager.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 21 
 
 5 
 Well I ween, he looked with pride 
 
 On that gathering by Loch Shiel, 
 As while the veteran, old and tried, 
 
 TuUibardine, true as steel, 
 
 6 
 
 " On the winds with dauntless hand 
 Flung the crimson flag unfurled. 
 Pledge that we to death would stand 
 For the Stuarts 'gainst the world. 
 
 7 
 " Jeanie Cameron gazed apart. 
 
 Where our people crowned the brae, 
 Proudly beat her gallant heart 
 At the sight of that bra\e day. 
 
 8 
 " Loud the shouting shakes the earth. 
 Far away the mountains boom, 
 As the Chiefs and Clansmen forth 
 March to victory and to doom." 
 
 The while he sang, in fervent dream 
 The old man's eye beheld the gleam 
 Of yet another Forty-five 
 Along those western shores revive. 
 And Moidart mountains re-illume — 
 The glory, but no more the gloom.
 
 GLEN DI-:SSERA\', OR 
 
 CANTO SECOND 
 BOTHAIN-AIRIDII; OR, THE SHEALINGS' 
 
 I 
 
 When from copse, and craig, and summit 
 
 Comes the cuckoo's lonely cry 
 Down the glen from morn to midnight 
 
 Sounding, warm June days are nigh. 
 At that cry, the heart of Allan 
 
 Turns towards the shealings green, 
 Where for ages every summer 
 
 Men of Sheaniebhal have been. 
 Bonny shealings, green and bielded,^ 
 
 Where there meet two corrie bums, 
 Ault-na-noo and Ault-a-bhealaich, 
 
 Pouring from high mountain urns. 
 Small green knolls of pasture fringing 
 
 Skirts of darksome Mkm-clach-ard, 
 .Scour-na-naat and Scour-na-ciecha 
 
 Westward keeping aweful guard. 
 Allan then, one grave glance round him 
 
 East and west the long glen cast, 
 
 1 Shealings, summer grazing high on the hills ; also, shep- 
 herd's huts, chalets. - Bielded, sheltered.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 
 
 Saw the clouds were high and steady, 
 Knew the wintry weather was past ; 
 
 Then spake loud to all his people — 
 " Mak' ye for the shealings boun :" 
 
 On the morrow every door was 
 Closed within the old farm-toun. 
 
 II 
 
 When the light lay on the mountains 
 
 Of a morning calm and mild, 
 From their homes the people going 
 
 Set their faces to the wild. 
 Then were seen whole families climbing 
 
 Up among the hoary cairns, 
 Grandsires, grandames, fathers, mothers, 
 
 Lads and lasses, winsome bairns, 
 Driving calves, and kye for milking. 
 Goats and small sheep on before. 
 Two white ponies trudging after 
 
 With their all of household store. 
 Here the blackcock, all his rivals 
 Driven aloof, on yonder mound 
 Sits and spreads his snowy pinion. 
 Drumming to his mates around. 
 There the redcock, new in plumage, 
 
 Scarlet crest in fresh May-glow, 
 From the distant heights replying,
 
 (;li:\ dksskrav. ok 
 
 Calls aloud with cheery crow. 
 Yonder Alpine hare before them 
 
 Canters lazily away, 
 With her coat snow-white in winter. 
 
 Now returned to dark-blue gre) : 
 Then aloof, on hind legs rising. 
 
 Perking ears in curious mood. 
 Listens, " whence have these intruders 
 
 Come to scare my solitude?" 
 Downward the hen-harrier stooping, 
 
 To and fro doth flit and wheel, 
 Stealthily along the heather. 
 
 Hunting for his morning meal. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Westward sloped the sun, ere reaching 
 
 Hillocks by the meeting bums. 
 Men begin last summer's bothies 
 
 Thatching, with drj' heath and ferns. 
 Wives the while, small ingles kindle, 
 
 Spread fresh heather beds on floor ; 
 For the milk and cheese make ready 
 
 Roomy sconce in ben-most bore.^ 
 Angus and his kilted comrades 
 
 In the hill-burn plash and shout. 
 All about the granite boulders 
 
 ' Sconce, shelter : Ben-most bore, innermost corner.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEX 25 
 
 Cuddling ^ for the speckled trout. 
 Well-a-day I but life was bonny 
 
 With our folk in those old days ; 
 Children barefoot, morn and even, 
 
 Wandering high on Ijrackeny braes ; 
 Lips and faces purpled over 
 
 With the rich abundant fill 
 Of blae, wortle, and crow-berries, 
 
 Gathered wide from craig and hill ; 
 Nature's own free gladness sharing 
 
 Through the sweetest of the year, 
 With the red grouse crowing round them, 
 
 And far-heard the belling deer ; 
 From behind, the mountain quiet 
 
 Blending with the lilting cry 
 Of the women homeward calling- 
 Down their goats and dauted kye.- 
 
 IV 
 
 It befell one time of shealings 
 
 Allan with his youngest boy, 
 Angus, high above the bothies 
 
 Wandered on some hill-employ ; 
 When from top of Ault-a-bhealaich 
 
 Looking, they beheld the bowl, 
 
 ^ Cuddling, groping. 
 - Dauted kye, favourite, doated-on cattle.
 
 26 (JLEN UESSERAV, OR 
 
 Caldion-shapcd and dark in sliadow, 
 
 Far beneath, of Corrie-na-Gaul. 
 " Was not that the hiding-place," cried 
 
 Angus, starting at the name, 
 " Where ye refuged, when Prince Charlie 
 
 Guiding, through these hills ye came ?"' 
 '• Many a place we had for hiding," 
 
 Answered Allan, " first and last :" 
 •• Tell me all the way ye travelled. 
 
 Whence the Prince came, whither passed." 
 " Well, dear laddie ! sith ye will it, 
 
 I will teach thee what befell 
 After that the Prince bade Flora, 
 
 And the shores of Skye farewell. 
 
 V 
 
 " As he steered up dark Loch Nevish, 
 
 And set foot on mainland shore. 
 Deadly foes were close behind him. 
 
 Deadly, keeping watch before. 
 Seaward, every frith and islet. 
 
 Girt and swept by hostile sail ; 
 Landward, one long line of sentries. 
 
 Post on post, kept hill and dale. 
 High and low, on glen and summit, 
 
 From Glenfinnan to Lochourn, 
 All the day saw guards patrolling.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 27 
 
 All the night red watch-fires burn. 
 Fast across the hills of Morar 
 
 Sped the Prince to Borrodale — 
 That leal House, when first he landed, 
 
 Welcomed him with glad ' all hail.' 
 There before his eyes the bonny 
 
 Homestead lay — a blackened heap — 
 Mid the craigs and woods o'erhanging, 
 
 The old Laird in hiding deep 
 With his sons kept. Thither guided, 
 
 Lay the Prince in safety there 
 For three days, till foemen prowling" 
 
 Close and closer girt their lair. 
 Then these leal Macdonalds longer 
 
 Could not their loved Prince conceal, 
 He must leave Clanranald's country 
 
 For the mountains of Lochiel. 
 Soon to Cameron of Glenpean 
 
 Came the word that he must wait 
 For the Prince, on one lone hill, and 
 
 Guide him through that desperate strait. 
 To our toun, came Donald crying, 
 
 ' Up and help the Prince with me,' 
 For he knew of these hill-passes 
 
 I had better skill than he.
 
 28 GLEN DKSSERAV, OR 
 
 VI 
 
 " Long we kept the cairn of trysting, 
 
 But none living came that way ; 
 Then to seek them through the mountains 
 
 Far we wandered : summer day 
 Into midnight deep was darkening, 
 
 When low down faint forms appear. 
 Through a slack ^ between the mountains 
 
 Moving dim like straggling deer. 
 Who they might be, all unknowing, 
 
 Down we hurried to the vale ; 
 Forward one then stept to meet us — 
 
 Who but brave Glenaladale ? 
 Glad was he to find no stranger. 
 
 But Glenpean, whom he knew ; 
 Glad the Prince to greet h Cameron 
 
 Long since proven leal and true. 
 Two days after dark Culloden, 
 
 A night 'neath Donald's roof he lay, 
 When in haste for Moidart making 
 
 Came he by Loch Arkaig way. 
 
 VII 
 
 " ' Come, thrice welcome I fain arc we to 
 Place our lives within thy hand, 
 ^ Slack, opening between two hills.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 29 
 
 Through these fires, where'er you lead us, 
 
 We will follow thy command,' 
 Low the Prince to Donald whispered, 
 
 For the watch-fires blazed anear, 
 And the sentry-voices answering, 
 Each to other, smote our ear. 
 ' Trust us, Prince ! our best endeavour 
 
 We will give to bring you through. 
 But the paths are rough and rocky. 
 
 And the hours of darkness few.' 
 Then, as leaders, I and Donald 
 
 On thro' darkness groped and crawled, 
 Down black moss-hags ^ gashed and miry, 
 
 Up great corries, torrent-scrawled ; 
 Till all faint with toil and travel, 
 
 As around the watch-fires wane. 
 In the first grey of the dawning 
 Yonder summit we attain, — 
 Southern wall of long Glen Desseray, 
 
 Mamnyn-Callum — that round hill — - 
 There, like hares far-hunted, squatting 
 
 Close we kept all day and still ; 
 Eyeing the red-coats beneath us, 
 
 How like wasps they swarm and spread 
 From their camp within the meadow, 
 
 Pitched beside Loch-Arkaig-head. 
 ^ Moss-kags, pits or gashes in a boggy moor.
 
 GLEN DESSLKAV, OR 
 
 Though so near, Glenpean bade the 
 Prince take rest, and nothing dread, 
 
 For yestreen all Mamnyn-Callum 
 
 They had searched from base to head. 
 
 " Sundown over Scour-na-ciecha, 
 
 Forth we creep from out our lair, 
 Just as the watch-fires rekindling 
 
 Leap up through the gloamin' air. 
 On the face of Meal-na-Sparden, 
 
 'Neath the sentries close, we keep 
 Westward, down yon cliff descending 
 
 To Glen-Lochan-Anach deep. 
 At the darkest of the night, we 
 
 Crossed our own Glen-head, and heard 
 Eerie voices of the howlets 
 
 Hooting from dim Mam-clach-ard. 
 Crawling then, up Ault-a-bhealaich, 
 
 Just at this spot — waning dim 
 O'er the mountains of Glengarry — 
 
 Ghost-like hung the crescents rim. 
 When we turned the bealach,^ downward 
 
 By yon rocky rough burn-head ; 
 With this right hand, through the darkness 
 
 Him, our darling Prince, I led. 
 1 Bealach, narrow pass. 
 
 I
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 31 
 
 O ! to think that such as I should 
 
 Grasp within this hand of mine 
 Him, the heir of all these Islands, 
 
 Last of Albyn's kingly line ! 
 Think that he was fain to refuge 
 
 In yon grim and dripping hold ; 
 He whose home should hae been a palace, 
 
 And his bed a couch of gold ! 
 
 • IX 
 
 "All these gnarl'd black-corried mountains 
 
 Hold no den hke Corrie-na-Gaul — 
 Womb of blackest rain-storms — cradle 
 
 Of the winds, that fiercest howl. 
 See ye yon grey rocky screetan ^ 
 
 Down from that dark precipice strown, 
 There I led them to a cavern 
 
 Under yon huge shelter-stone. 
 All the day we heard the gun-shots 
 
 On the mountains overhead. 
 Well we knew red-coats were busy 
 
 Shooting our poor people dead. 
 Two days we had all but fasted, 
 
 Now were growing hunger-faint, 
 All the while the Prince would cheer us, 
 
 ^ Screetan, stony ravine, track of torrent, or stony debris 
 on mountain-side.
 
 32 GLEN DESSEKAV, OK 
 
 Not one murmur or complaint ; 
 Though for many days, the choicest 
 
 Fare he li.ul his want to fill 
 Was scant oatmeal, cold spring water, 
 
 And wild berries from the hill. 
 So in search of food I ventured 
 
 Down to where some shealings were. 
 Hut I found them all abandoned, 
 
 And the bothies empty and bare. 
 Baffled, I returned and brought them 
 
 Forth from our dark cavern-bed, 
 And, though full the daylight, led them 
 
 Warily to a mountain head, 
 That o'erlooked (ilen-quoich's dark waters ; 
 
 There, what saw we close below 
 Hut a camp with red-coats swamiing, 
 
 And a troop in haste to go 
 Up the very hill we lodged in ? 
 
 All about they searched that day. 
 Close we cowered, and heaven so guided 
 
 That they came not where we lay. 
 Then the Prince said, * Not another 
 
 Sun shall rise ere we shall make 
 Trial to pass the chain of sentries — 
 
 Life upon that hazard stake.'
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 33 
 
 X 
 
 " Gloamin' fell, we rose and started 
 
 From our lair, a stealthy race 
 O'er that stream and flat Lon-meadow, 
 
 Up yon wrinkled mountain face, — 
 Druim-a-chosi, — from that summit 
 
 Seen, a watch-fire wildly burned 
 In the glen, across our pathway — 
 
 Westward to the side we turned : 
 And so close we passed it, voices 
 
 Of the sentinels reached our ear — 
 Low we crouched, and round the hillocks 
 
 Crawled, like stalkers of the deer. 
 Up a hill flank — (Druim-a-chosi 
 
 Will not let us now discern) 
 Scrambling up a torrent's bed, we 
 
 Won the ridge of Leach-na-fearn. 
 There, in our descending pathway 
 
 Down before us, full in view 
 Watch-fires twain in grey dawn flickered, 
 
 That way we must venture through. 
 Then I said, ' Prince ! ere you venture. 
 
 Let me first the passage prove ; ' 
 And, with that, few steps to westward 
 
 Crept adown a torrent's groove. 
 There I watched till warders pacing 
 
 Passed each other, back to back ; 
 D
 
 34 GLEN DESSERAY, OR 
 
 Swift, but mute, I passed between them, 
 
 Safe returned the self-same track. 
 And we all kept close in shelter, 
 
 Till again they face to face 
 Met and passed each other, leaving. 
 
 Back to back, an empty space. 
 Quick I darted forward, whispering, 
 
 ' Now's our time. Prince I follow me:' 
 Few brief breathless moments crawling 
 
 Down the corrie ^ — we were free. 
 Out beyond the chain of sentries, 
 
 Down by Lochan-doire-dhu, 
 'Neath the bield - of birks and alders. 
 
 Past the mouth of Corrie-hoo, 
 Up the rock of Innis-craikie — 
 
 Just as the last star grew pale 
 On the brow of Scour-a-vorrar, 
 
 Reached we Corrie-scorridale. 
 
 XI 
 
 " There, in rocky den safe-sheltered, 
 O the welcome blest repose I 
 Time at last for food and slumber. 
 
 Respite from relentless foes. 
 When a day and night were over, 
 
 We arose and wandered on, 
 ' Corrie, see note, p. 7. " Bield, shelter.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 35 
 
 Northward to the Seaforth country, 
 
 West from long Glenmorriston. 
 Then, I knew my work was ended, 
 
 For those hills to me were strange. 
 And a clansman of Glengarry's 
 
 Bred amid that mountain range — 
 One who had shar'd Culloden battle- 
 Was at hand a guide to be. 
 Then the Prince turned round, and gazing 
 
 On my face, spake words to me : 
 ' Allan ! what can I repay thee 
 
 For thy service done so well ? 
 Naught but thanks are mine to render. 
 
 Heart-deep thanks, and long farewell.' 
 In his own he grasped this right hand, 
 
 The Prince grasped it — never since — 
 Never while I breathe shall mortal 
 
 Grasp this hand which touched the Prince.^ 
 Think na ye the tears came fa'ing, 
 
 Think na ye my heart was sair, 
 Watching him depart, and knowing 
 
 I should see his face nae mair." 
 
 ^ See Note at end.
 
 36 GLEN DESSERAY, OR 
 
 CANTO THIRD 
 "ON THE TRACK OF THE PRINCE" 
 
 I 
 
 Down to Loch Nevish went the day, 
 
 And all that night young Angus lay 
 
 'Tween dream and waking, — heart on fire 
 
 With inextinguishable desire 
 
 To trace each step the Prince had gone 
 
 From Morar to Glengarry, — on, 
 
 O'er rifted peak, and cove profound, 
 
 Exploring every inch of ground, 
 
 Until he reached the famed ravine 
 
 Through which he passed the guards between ; 
 
 For every spot the Prince had trode 
 
 To him with sacred radiance glowed. 
 
 II 
 
 When the first streaks of morning broke 
 Above Glengarry mountains, woke 
 Young Angus from his heather bed, 
 Stole through the bothy door, and said 
 No word to any of the way 
 Him listed take that summer day.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 37 
 
 Up by the Ault-a-bhealaich burn 
 
 Lightly he went, and at the turn 
 
 Of waters, plunged down Corrie-na-Gaul, — 
 
 That dark cavernous cauldron-bowl, 
 
 O'er-canopied, morn and eve, with mist, — 
 
 Therein he sought the cave he wist 
 
 His father pointed out yestreen 
 
 Where he erewhile with the Prince had been. 
 
 Thence down the corrie-burn he bore, 
 
 And up on precipiced Scour-a-vhor 
 
 Sought where they refuged. Then in haste 
 
 He hurried o'er the low wide waste, — 
 
 The Lon, o'er which the wanderers ran 
 
 That night, when their last march began 
 
 To pass the sentries ; then he hied 
 
 Up Druimahoshi's rugged side ; 
 
 But on his spirit solemn awe 
 
 Fell when, the summit won, he saw 
 
 To westward Knoydart peaks up-crowd. 
 
 Scarred, jagg'd, black-corried — some in cloud. 
 
 Some by slant sunbursts glory-kissed, — 
 
 Beyond — through fleeces broad of mist 
 
 Like splintered spears weird peaks of Skye, 
 And many an isle he could not name, 
 That looming into vision came 
 
 From ocean's outer mystery. 
 
 410793
 
 38 GLEN DESSERAV, OR 
 
 111 
 
 Long Angus stood and gazed, and when, 
 Downward, he searched the farther glen. 
 The westering sun toward ocean bending 
 From the hill edge slant rays was sending 
 Backward o'er gnarled Scour-a-chlive, 
 And greener flanks of Leach-na-fern. 
 Well Angus knew the Prince had passed 
 The guards up there, and keenly cast 
 His eyes all over them to discern 
 Some crevice in their mountain wall 
 Up which the wanderer's feet could crawl. 
 
 IV 
 
 Three burns there are, as I have seen. 
 Poured from that hill-side — one between 
 Scour-a-chlive and Leach-na-fern, 
 Called of the people the March-burn, 
 Because its channel doth divide 
 Rough Knoydart from Glengarry side : 
 And one, Ault-Scouapich, that doth leap, — 
 The Besom burn — down the middle steep ; 
 
 Westmost of all a stream that drains 
 The severed peaks of Scour-a-chlive, 
 
 Called from old time the Burn of brains, 
 Through the rough hill-flank down doth drive 
 
 I
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 39 
 
 A deep indented furrow, till, 
 
 The level reached, within a still 
 
 Small meadowy spot, that greenly gleams 
 
 Amid the waste, made glad with streams, 
 
 That hill-burn, loop on loop, entwined 
 
 Goes wandering gently down, to find 
 
 The great Glen-river. Of these three 
 
 Which might the very channel be 
 
 By which the Prince passed upward, no 
 
 Foot-print or sign remains to show. 
 
 So to himself young Angus said, 
 
 As o'er and o'er with eager ken 
 From left to right his eyes surveyed 
 
 The northern steep that walls the glen. 
 
 V 
 
 Wearied and bafifled with the quest 
 
 All day pursued in vain, 
 His eyes went wandering east and west 
 To corrie and scaur, in blank unrest. 
 
 Again and yet again. 
 O'er earth our mightiest movements pass. 
 
 And leave no deeper impress than 
 Cloud-shadows on the mountain grass. 
 
 So fleeting and so frail is man. 
 The Princely feet that mountain wall 
 Passed over, but have left no scrawl ;
 
 40 (iLEN DESSERAV, OK 
 
 This desert saw what here befell 
 
 But hath no voice or sign to tell, 
 
 And the rocks keep their secret well. 
 
 As thoughts like these athwart him swept 
 
 Fain had he sat him down and wept. 
 
 \1 
 
 But day was westering, and the cloud 
 Down on the glooming summits bowed 
 Brought o'er his heart a sudden fear 
 Of night in that lone place austere. 
 Then he arose in haste, and clomb 
 
 The steep in panting hope to win 
 On the other side some human home. 
 
 Or even some cave to shelter in. 
 Soon as he crossed the highest cope, 
 He saw, cleaving the northern slope, 
 A birchen corrie with its burn 
 Now bare, now hidden. "Thou my turn 
 Wilt serve," he cried ; " with thee for guide, 
 I'll go where'er thy waters glide." 
 Soon as his eager footstep trode 
 Beside it, on the grassy sod, 
 The pleasant murmur in his ear 
 Was like a voice of human cheer. 
 And seemed to lift away the load 
 That all day long had overawed
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 41 
 
 And weighed his spirit down with stress 
 
 Of too prevailing loneHness : 
 
 Lightly he trode down Corriebeigh, 
 
 The burn companion of his way, 
 
 Now by the greensward winding, gliding, 
 
 Now in the birchen coppice hiding. 
 
 Then plunging forward and chafing far 
 
 Underneath some crumbling scaur, 
 
 Anon in daylight re-appearing 
 
 To greet him with a sound of cheering, 
 
 Till it reached far down in a glimmering pass 
 
 A little lochan,! marged with grass : 
 
 He watched the small burn steal therein 
 
 And rest for its wandering water win, 
 
 And the thought arose within his breast, 
 
 " Haply I too may here find rest." 
 
 vn 
 
 Then turning round, small space aloof. 
 Under a bield of the birchen wood, 
 He saw a bothy of wicker woof 
 With bracken and heather for its roof. 
 
 Like lair of wild beast, rough and rude. 
 A moment's space, he paused before 
 The opening dark that seemed a door, 
 And gazed around, — indistinct and dim 
 ^ Lochan, small lake.
 
 42 (iLEN DESSEKAV, OR 
 
 The black crags vague in vapour swim ; 
 Naught clear in all the glimmering pass 
 But the lochan-gleam with its marge of grass, 
 And the flash of the great white waterfall 
 Down thundering from the northern wall, 
 And filling with o'eraweing roar 
 The solemn pass forevermore. 
 No time to look or listen long, 
 
 Ere forth there stept from the bothy door 
 An old man, tall, erect, and strong — 
 
 Threescore years he had seen or more, — 
 Survivor of the Forty-five, 
 
 One of the old Glengarry clan, 
 Who wont not from his lair to drive 
 
 Any wandering man ; 
 He kindly welcomed Angus in, 
 Unquestioning of his home or kin. 
 
 VIII 
 
 But when the lad, with bashful face, 
 Told how he came to that lone place, 
 That he had wandered since break of day 
 From the shealings of Glen Desseray, 
 One of Lochiel's own people — son 
 Of veteran Ewen Cameron — 
 At hearing of that well-known name 
 Murdoch Macdonnell's cheek like flame
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 43 
 
 Brightened, and in his hand he took 
 The lad's, and to the ingle-nook 
 Of the bothy led him, saying aloud, 
 " Son of my battle friend, how proud 
 Am I to bid thee welcome here ; 
 For him thy Sire, true man sincere. 
 Years have gone by, since we two met, 
 
 Like me, he must be touched with eld, 
 But till the Gael their Prince forget 
 
 In honour will his name be held." 
 
 IX 
 
 Upon the settle seated, o'er 
 
 That ancient tale they went once more, 
 
 And Murdoch told the very place — 
 
 The burn that grooves the southern face 
 
 Of Leach-na-fern — where Angus led 
 
 The Prince across the watershed, 
 
 Thence through the sentinels crept their way, 
 
 Down the clefts of this same Corriebeigh. 
 
 Anon his board the old man piled 
 
 With the best increase of the wild — 
 
 Red-spotted trout, fresh from the stream, 
 
 Hill-berries, stored in autumn hours, 
 And goat-milk cheese, and yellow cream 
 
 Rich with the juice of mountain flowers : 
 And oatmeal cake and barley scone, —
 
 44 GLEN DESSERAY, OR 
 
 Sweet viands for a hungry guest 
 To break his day-long fast upon, 
 
 Before he sought his couch of rest. 
 That couch old Murdoch's hands had spread 
 
 With the fresh crop of heather green 
 
 Turned upward — never prince, I ween, 
 On easier pillow laid his head. 
 Though soft the bed, and the rough way 
 Had wearied him, yet Angus lay 
 Far into night, through the still gloom 
 Listening the sleepless cataract boom, 
 In busy thought back- wandering through 
 The lonely places, strange and new. 
 That day had to his sight revealed, 
 Ere slumber soft his eyelids sealed.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 45 
 
 CANTO FOURTH 
 THE HOME BY LOCHOURN 
 
 I 
 
 Early young Angus rose to meet 
 The morning. Glimmering at his feet — 
 There lay the lochan, clear as glass, 
 The margin green with reeds and grass, 
 Within the lap of the awesome pass. 
 That from Glengarry's westmost bourne 
 Breaks headlong down on lone Lochourn. 
 Over the shoulder of the world 
 The sun looked, and the pale mists curled 
 On black crag-faces, smit to gold, 
 And rose and lingered, crept and rolled 
 Up the ravines and splintered heights. 
 All beautiful with the dawning lights. 
 A pleasant morn it was of June, 
 
 The time of year that most awakes 
 The mountain melodists to tune 
 
 Their sweetest songs from heaths and brakes ; 
 The mavis' voice rang from the copse, 
 
 Upon his knoll the blackcock crowed, 
 And up toward the bare hill-tops
 
 46 GLEN DESSERAV, OR 
 
 The cuckoo shouted loud. 
 Across the deep gorge, under all 
 Kept sounding on the torrent fall, 
 That thundering down with sleepless wave 
 We Gael call Essan-corrie-Graive. 
 
 Soon as the early meal was o'er, 
 Murdoch looked from the bothy door, 
 And said, " I go to Lochourn's lone side, 
 
 Where my bairns in our winter home delay ; 
 Wilt thither go with me, and bide 
 
 Beneath my roof one other day ? 
 To-morrow, my Ronald shall be thy guide 
 
 Over the hills to Glen Desseray." 
 Westward they went with morning joy, 
 That old man and light-hearted boy : 
 Ah ! beautiful the mountain road 
 As ever foot of mortal trode, . 
 Winding west through the cloven defile 
 Of crags fantastic, pile on pile. 
 Towering rock, huge boulder stone. 
 Heather-crowned and lichen-grown, 
 And crumpled mountain walls, ravined 
 With birchen-corries, sunlight-sheened. 
 Where the torrent plunged and flashed in spray 
 Down to the little lochans that lay
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 47 
 
 Gleaming in the lap of the Pass 
 
 Fringed with reeds, and marged with grass. 
 
 As they the early day beguile 
 
 Sauntering through the long defile, 
 
 Upon young Angus' wondering sense 
 
 With new-born beauty, power intense. 
 
 Of craig and scaur, of copse and dell 
 
 And far-off peaks the vision fell ; 
 
 All seemed endued, he knew not how. 
 
 With glory never seen till now. 
 
 Ill 
 
 At length old Murdoch silence broke, 
 And Angus from his dream awoke, — 
 " Ye see that slack ^ on the water-shed ; 
 That was the way your Father led 
 Our noble Prince the sentinels through ; 
 Then down by this same Corrie-hoo 
 They came, and crossed our path just here. 
 And round the end of yon small mere, 
 Up through that hazel wood they went, 
 Over yon rocky sheer ascent. 
 And reached, as the last star grew pale. 
 The Cave of Corrie-scorridale ; 
 And there — I've heard your Father tell — 
 He bade the Prince a long farewell." 
 ^ Slack, see note, p. 28.
 
 48 GLEN DESSERAV, OR 
 
 IV 
 
 Then round a rock a sudden turn 
 Showed far below deep-walled Lochourn- 
 Blue inlet from the distant seas 
 
 Piercing far up the mountain world ; 
 In the calm noon no breath or breeze 
 
 Along the azure waters curled. 
 At sight thereof their sense was smote 
 With fresh sea-savour ; though remote 
 From the main ocean many a mile 
 Inflooded past cape, creek, and kyle,^ 
 The sea-loch, flanked by precipice walls, 
 With ever-lessening murmur crawls, 
 Till 'neath the Pass he lies subdued 
 By the o'eraweing solitude ; 
 And yet some vigour doth retain. 
 Some freshness of the parent main. 
 
 V 
 
 So have I seen it : many a day 
 Is gone since last I passed that way. 
 Yet still in memory lives impressed 
 The image of its aweful rest. 
 The winds there wont to work their will 
 That day were quiet — all was still, 
 - Kyle, sound or strait.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 49 
 
 Save that one headlong cataract hoar 
 From steep Glenelg's opposing shore 
 Sent o'er the loch a lulHng sound, 
 That made the hush but more profound. 
 There in clear mirror imaged lay 
 The lichened clififs tall, silver-grey. 
 Their ledges interlaced with green ; 
 
 The cataract of white-sheeted spray 
 Down flashing through the dark ravine, 
 
 The birches clambering up midway 
 The sea-marge and hill-tops between ; 
 Each herb, each floweret, tiny-leaved, 
 Into that lucid depth received, 
 Therein repeated, hue and line. 
 With more than their own beauty shine, 
 Embedded in a nether sky. 
 More fairy-fleeced than that on high : 
 A scene it seemed of beauty and peace. 
 So deep it could not change or cease. 
 
 VI 
 
 Through such a scene, on such a day. 
 They wandered down that lovely noon, 
 
 Now 'neath high headlands making way 
 Among huge blocks at random strewn ; 
 
 Now round some gentle bay they wind. 
 
 Green nook, with golden shingle lined, 
 E
 
 50 GLEN DKSSERAV, OK 
 
 Whither the weary fisher oars 
 His boat for mooring ; then by doors 
 They went, of kindly crofter-folk, 
 Whence many a gladsome greeting broke ; 
 And Murdoch told them, now was time 
 To the high shealings they should climb ; 
 Himself there with his goats had been 
 And seen the pastures growing green. 
 To-morrow he and his would drive 
 
 Their ponies and sheep, and bonny kine, 
 Up to the back of Scour-a-chlaive, 
 
 Where the springs ran clear and the grass 
 was fine : 
 And there the clansmen would forgather 
 All in the pleasant bright June weather ; 
 So he warned the Lochside, toun by toun. 
 To make them for the shealings boune. 
 
 VII 
 
 The day had westered far, and on 
 
 The yellow pines the sunset shone, 
 
 Streamed back from Lurvein, kindling them 
 
 To redder lustre, branch and stem. 
 
 Ere they reached the pine-tree on the crown 
 
 Sole-standing of the promontory. 
 Whence they beheld far-gazing down 
 
 The loch inlaid with sunset glory.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 51 
 
 Long time beside that sole pine-tree 
 They stood and gazed in ecstasy, 
 For the face of heaven was all a-glow 
 
 With molten splendour backward streamed 
 From the sunken sun, and the loch below, 
 
 Flushed with an answering glory, gleamed. 
 Each purple cloud aloft that burned 
 In the depth below was back returned. 
 There headlands, each o'erlapping each, 
 Projecting down the long loch's reach, 
 With point of rock and plume of pine. 
 All glorious in the sunset shine : 
 And far down on the verge of sight 
 
 Rock-islets interlacing lie, 
 That lapt in floor of molten light 
 
 Seemed natives less of earth than sky. 
 From height of heaven to ocean bed 
 One living splendour penetrated. 
 And made that moment seem to be 
 Bridal of earth and sky and sea. 
 
 VIII 
 
 As died away the wondrous glow, 
 They wandered down to a home below ; 
 A little home, where the mountain burn, 
 Thrown from the pine-crags, touched the 
 shore :
 
 52 GLEN DESSERAV, OR 
 
 There waiting for their Sire's return 
 
 His family meet him at the door ; 
 His own wife, Marion, hail and leal,^ 
 Just risen from her humming wheel, 
 Their eldest — Donald, — nearing now 
 
 The verge of manhood, hunter keen ; 
 And Ronald, with the open brow 
 
 And bright eye-glance of blithe sixteen. 
 And his one daughter, loved so well, 
 The dark-haired, blue-eyed Muriel. 
 These all were waiting, fain to know 
 How soon they might to the shealing go ; 
 And while much-wondering whence the boy, 
 To whom their Sire had been convoy, 
 They made him welcome with their best 
 Beneath their roof that night to rest. 
 There in that beautiful retreat 
 Companions young and converse sweet 
 Woke Angus to another mood 
 Than he had nursed in solitude. 
 No more by cave and mountain-slack 
 He dreamed o'er the lorn Prince's track ; 
 Those weary wanderings all forgot 
 Were changed for fields of happier thought. 
 And fairer visions, fresh with dew 
 Of a dream-land not old but new. 
 
 ^ Hail and leal, healthy and faithful.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 53 
 
 CANTO FIFTH 
 THE WAR SUMMONS 
 
 I 
 
 Soon as the kindling dawn had tipt 
 
 With gold Scour-vorrar's lonely head, 
 Before a single ray had dipt 
 
 Down to the loch's deep-shadowed bed, 
 Betimes old Marion was astir, 
 Thinking of that young wanderer. 
 And eident 1 fitly to prepare 
 For all the household morning fare. 
 That over, Murdoch rose and went 
 Up through the pines, the steep ascent, 
 His two lads with him, to convoy 
 Homeward the wandering Cameron boy. 
 From the high peaks soon they showed a track. 
 That followed on would lead him back 
 To where his people's shealings lay, 
 On heights above Glen Desseray ; 
 Then bade farewell — but ere they part 
 The three lads vowed with eager heart 
 That they, ere long, with willing feet. 
 Would hasten o'er the hills to meet. 
 1 Eident, diligent.-
 
 54 GLEN DESSERAV, OK 
 
 Many a going and return 
 Down to lone, beautiful Lochourn, 
 That pathway witnessed — many a time 
 These young lads crossed it, fain to climb 
 Each to the other's shealings, there 
 The pastimes of the hills to share — 
 To fish together the high mere. 
 Track to his lair the straggling deer. 
 From refuge in the cairn of rocks 
 Unearth the lamb-destroying fox ; 
 Or creep, with balanced footing nice. 
 
 Where o'er some awful chasm hung, 
 On ledge of dripping precipice. 
 
 The brooding eagle rears her young. 
 So from that wild, free nurture grew 
 'Tween these three lads firm friendship true. 
 
 But most the soul of Ronald clave 
 To Angus, his own chosen friend — 
 
 To Angus more than brother gave 
 Tender affection without end — 
 Such as young hearts give in their prime — 
 
 A weight of love, no lesser than 
 The love wherewith, in that old time, 
 
 David was loved by Jonathan.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 55 
 
 III 
 
 At length the loud war-thunder broke 
 O'er Europe, and the land awoke, 
 Even to the innermost recess 
 Of this far-western wilderness. 
 And the best councillors of the Crown — 
 They who erewhile had hunted down 
 Our sires on their own mountains, now, 
 Led by a wiser man, 'gan trow 
 'Twere better and more safe to use 
 Our good claymores and hardy thews 
 'Gainst Britain's foes, than shoot us dead. 
 Food for the hill-fox and the glead.^ 
 To all the Chieftains of the North 
 An edict from the King went forth, 
 That who should to his standard bring 
 
 From his own hills a stalwart band 
 Of clansmen in his following. 
 
 Himself should lead them and command. 
 He could not hear — our own Lochiel — 
 With heart unmoved that strong appeal. 
 To rouse once more the ancient breed 
 
 Of warriors, as his sires had done, 
 And help his country in her need 
 
 With the flower of brave Clan Cameron. 
 ^ dead, kite.
 
 56 GLEN DESSERAV, OR 
 
 IV 
 
 Then every morning Achnacarry 
 
 Saw clansmen mustering in hot hurry — 
 
 Saw every glen that owns Lochiel, 
 
 Lochaber Braes, and all MJim-more, 
 Glenluy, west to fair Loch Shiel, 
 
 Their bravest to the trysting pour. 
 Westward the summons passed, as flame 
 
 By shepherds lit, some dry March day, 
 Sweeps over heathery braes — so came 
 
 The tidings to Glen Desseray ; 
 And found the men of Shenebha! 
 Down in the meadow, busy all 
 Their stacks of barley set to bind, 
 Against the winter's rain and wind : 
 All the flower of the Glen — 
 Grown, or nearly grown to men — 
 Heard that summons, all between 
 Thirty years and bright eighteen, 
 Loth or willing, slow or fleet, 
 Rose their Chieftain's call to meet ; 
 Angus, youngest, eager most 
 To' join the quickly mustering host. 
 Though sad his sire, he could but feel 
 His boy must follow young Lochiel, 
 And his mother's heart, tho' wae,
 
 N 
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 57 
 
 Did not dare to say him nay. 
 When the following morn appeared, 
 Down the loch their boat they steered 
 To Achnacarry, there to enrol 
 Their names upon the muster-scroll, 
 And receive their Chief's command, 
 
 To gather when a month was gone, 
 And follow to a foreign land 
 
 The young heir of Clan Cameron. 
 
 V ' 
 
 What were they doing by Lochourn, 
 
 At the Farm of Rounieval, 
 When there came that sudden turn 
 
 To Angus' fortunes, changing all ? 
 The tidings found, at close of day, 
 Ronald and Muriel on their way 
 Homeward, by the winding shore, 
 Driving the cattle on before. 
 At hearing of that startling word 
 The heart of Ronald, deeply stirred, 
 Wrought to and fro — Must I then part 
 From him, the brother of my heart ; 
 Let him go forth, on some far shore. 
 To perish, seen of me no more .'' 
 It must not be, shall not be so, 
 Where Angus goeth, I will go.
 
 58 GLEN DESSERAV, OR 
 
 Soon to his sister's ear he brought 
 The secret thing that in him wrought — 
 " I go with Angus — side by side 
 " We'll meet, whatever fate betide." 
 
 VI 
 
 Who, that hath ever known the power 
 
 Of home, but to life's latest hour 
 
 Will bear in mind the deathly knell, 
 
 That on his infant spirit fell, 
 
 WTien first some voice, low-whispering said 
 
 " One lamb in the home-fold lies dead ;" 
 
 Or that drear hour, scarce less forlorn. 
 
 When tidings to his ear was borne. 
 
 That the first brother needs must part 
 
 From the home-circle, heart to heart 
 
 Fast bound, — must leave the well-loved place, 
 
 Alone the world's bleak road to face. 
 
 Then as their hearts strain after him, 
 
 With many a prayer and yearning dim, 
 
 The old home, they feel, erst so serene, 
 
 No more can be as it has been. 
 
 Just so that sudden summons fell 
 
 Upon the heart of Muriel, 
 
 Even like a sudden funeral bell — 
 
 An iron knell of deathly doom 
 
 To wither all her young life's bloom.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 59 
 
 VII 
 
 Few words of dool that night they spake, 
 
 Though their two hearts were nigh to break, 
 
 But with the morrow's purpHng dawn 
 
 Ronald and Muriel they are gone 
 
 Up through the pine-trees, till they clomb 
 
 The highest ridge upon the way 
 
 That strikes o'er Knoydart mountains from 
 
 Lochourn-side to Glen Desseray ; 
 
 And there they parted. Not, I ween, 
 
 Was that their latest parting morn ; 
 
 Yet seldom have those mountains seen 
 
 Two sadder creatures, more forlorn, 
 
 Than these two moving, each apart, 
 
 To commune with their own lone heart, 
 
 To Achnacarry, one to share 
 
 The muster of the clansmen there, 
 
 And one, all lonely, to return 
 
 Back to the desolate, dark Lochourn. 
 
 And yet no wild and wayward wail 
 
 Went up from bonny Rounieval, 
 
 But Muriel set her to prepare 
 
 Against the final parting day, 
 A tartan plaid for Ronald's wear. 
 
 When he was far away.
 
 6o GLEN DESSERAV, OR 
 
 She took the has-wool,' lock by lock, 
 
 The choice wool, she in summers old. 
 What time her father sheared his flock, 
 
 Had gathered by the mountain fold. 
 She washed and carded it clean and fine, 
 
 Then, sitting by the birling 2 wheel. 
 She span it out, a slender twine, 
 
 And hanked it on the larger reel. 
 Singing a low, sad chaunt the while. 
 That might her heavy heart beguile. 
 
 VIII 
 
 The hanks she steeped in diverse grains — 
 
 Rich grains, last autumn time distilled 
 By her own hands, with curious pains, 
 
 Learnt from old folk in colours skilled. 
 Deep dyes of orange, which she drew 
 
 From crotal ^ dark on mountain top, 
 And purples of the finest hue 
 
 Pressed from fresh heather crop. 
 Black hues which she had brewed from bark 
 Of the alders, green and dark. 
 Which overshadow streams that go. 
 
 After they have won the vale, 
 
 ^ Has-wool, see Note at end. 
 
 - Birling, whirring, rattling. 
 
 3 Crotal, a lichen (Omphalodes) now called Cudbear.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 6i 
 
 Seaward winding still and slow, 
 Down by gloomy Barrisdale. 
 Thereto she added diverse juices, 
 Taken for their colouring uses, 
 From the lily flowers that float 
 High on mountain lochs remote ; 
 And yellow tints the tanzy yields, 
 Growing in forsaken fields — 
 All these various hues she found 
 On her native Highland ground. 
 
 IX 
 
 But besides she fused and wrought 
 In her chalice tinctures brought 
 From far-off countries — blue of Ind, 
 From plants that by the Ganges grew, 
 And brilliant scarlets, well refined, 
 From cochineal, the cactus rind 
 Yields on warm hills of Mexico. 
 When in these tinctures long had lain 
 The several hanks, and drank the grain. 
 She sunned them on the homeside grass, 
 
 Before the door, above the burn, 
 Then to the weaver's home did pass. 
 
 Who lived to westward, down Lochourn. 
 She watched the webster while he tried 
 
 Her hanks, and put the dyes to proof,
 
 62 GLEN DESSERAV, OR 
 
 Then to the loom her fingers lied, 
 
 Just as he bade her, warp and woof, 
 The threads of bonny haslock woo' — 
 
 Her haslock woo' well dyed and fine, 
 And she matched the colours, hue with hue, 
 
 Laid them together, line on line. 
 And as the treddles rattling went. 
 
 And the swift shuttle whistled through, 
 It seemed as though her heart-strings blent 
 
 With every thread that shuttle drew. 
 
 X 
 
 When two moons had waxed and waned. 
 And the third was past the full, 
 And the weary cup was all but drained 
 Of long suspense, and naught remained. 
 But the one day of parting dool. 
 From Achnacarry Ronald passed 
 Down to Lochourn, to bid farewell 
 To father, mother, brother dear. 
 And his sole sister Muriel. 
 For word had come the new-raised band. 
 Ere two days pass must leave their land. 
 To march on foreign service — where, 
 Not even their chief could yet declare. 
 Far had the autumn waned that morn. 
 When Ronald left his home forlorn,
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 63 
 
 And all his family rose and went 
 
 Forth by his side to cheer his way, 
 To the tryst whither he was bent, 
 
 At foot of long Glen Desseray. 
 And as they went was Muriel wearing 
 
 Around her breast the new-woven plaid, 
 And Ronald tall, with gallant bearing, 
 
 Walked in clan tartan garb arrayed. 
 A while they kept the winding shores 
 Of wan Lochourn — from friendly doors 
 Many a heartily breathed farewell 
 On the ears of the passing family fell. 
 Then up through dark Glen Barrisdale lay 
 Their path the mornmg chill and grey, 
 And drearily the fitful blast 
 Moaned down the corries, as they passed. 
 And floated in troops around their head 
 From withered birks ^ the wan leaves dead ; 
 And the swathes of mist, in the black gulphs curled, 
 On the gusty breezes swayed and swirled. 
 Up to the cloud that in solid mass 
 Roofed the Mam above and the lonely Pass. 
 Into that cloud the travellers bore — 
 Lochourn and his islands were seen no more. 
 
 ^ Birks, birch-trees.
 
 64 GLEN DESSERAY, OR 
 
 XI 
 
 As they passed from the Mhm and its cloudy cowl 
 
 Beneath lay Loch Nevish with grim, black scowl — 
 
 The blackest, siillenest loch that fills 
 
 The ocean-rents of these gnarled hills ; 
 
 Those flanking hills, where evermore 
 
 Dank vapours swim, wild rain-floods pour. 
 
 Where ends the loch the way is barred 
 
 By the awesome pass of Mhm-clach-ard, 
 
 By some great throes of Nature rent 
 
 Between two mountains imminent ; 
 
 Scour-na-naat with sharp wedge soaring, 
 
 Scour-na-ciche, cataracts pouring 
 
 From precipice to precipice, 
 
 Headlong down many a blind abyss. 
 
 A place it was, e'en at noon or morn. 
 
 Of dim, weird sights, and sounds forlorn. 
 
 But after nightfall, lad nor lass 
 
 In all Lochiel would face that pass. 
 
 Now as these travellers climb the Mum, 
 
 They were aware of a stem, grim calm — 
 
 The calm of the autumn afternoon. 
 
 When night and storm will be roaring soon. 
 
 But little tune, I ween, had they 
 
 To watch strange shapes, weird sounds to hear, 
 
 For they must hasten on their way — 
 
 i
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 65 
 
 Not feed on phantasies of fear, 
 
 Lest night should fall on them before 
 
 They reached Loch Arkaig's distant shore. 
 
 XII 
 
 Down to that trysting place they fare, 
 Many people were gathered there — 
 Father, mother, sister, friend. 
 
 From all the glens, deep-hearted Gael, 
 Each for some parting brother, blend 
 
 Manhood's tears with woman's wail. 
 Beneath them on the water's marge, 
 Lay floating ready the eight-oared barge. 
 To Achnacarry soon to bear 
 His clansmen to their young Chief there. 
 When the Knoydart family reached that crowd. 
 And heard their lamentations loud. 
 Behind a green knoll, out of view, 
 With their young warrior all withdrew — 
 That knoll which sent, in by-gone days, 
 Down the long loch the beacon's blaze. 
 There Angus and his people all 
 Were waiting them of Rounieval, 
 And while the old folk, in sorrow peers, 
 Mingle their common grief and tears, 
 And Angus, home and parents leaving. 
 Is set to bear with manly grieving, 
 
 F
 
 66 C.LKN DKSSKRAV, OR 
 
 Yet one peculiar pang was there, 
 Which only he and Muriel share — 
 A pang deep-hid in either breast, 
 Nor once to alien ear confessed. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Then Muriel suddenly unbound 
 
 The plaid wherewith herself was drest, 
 Threw it her brother's shoulders round, 
 
 And wrapt it o'er his manly breast. 
 " This plaid my own hands dyed and wove, 
 Memorial of our true home-love ; 
 Let its fast colours symbol be 
 Of thoughts and prayers that cling to thee." 
 Then from her breast his mother took 
 A little Gaelic Bible book — 
 " For my sake read, and o'er it pray, 
 We here shall meet when you're far away." 
 With that, impatient cries wax'd loud — 
 " Unmoor the barge " — one swift embrace, 
 
 One clinging kiss to each dear face, 
 And rushing blindly through the crowd, 
 
 Angus and Ronald take their place 
 Within the boat. The piper blew 
 The thrilling pibroch of Donald Dhu ; 
 But the sound on the Knoydart weepers fell. 
 And on many more, like a funeral knell ;
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 67 
 
 And the farther down the loch they sail, 
 
 In deeper sadness died the wail, 
 
 And their eyes grew dimmer, and yet more dim, 
 
 Down the wan water following him — 
 
 Watching so fleetly disappear 
 
 All that on earth they hold most dear. 
 
 Till round the farthest jutting Rhu 
 
 The barge, oar-driven, swept from view. 
 
 Then from the knoll they turned away, 
 
 And tears no more they cared repress, 
 But set their face through gloamin' grey, 
 
 Back to the western wilderness.
 
 68 (JLi:n dessekav, ok 
 
 canto six 77/ 
 the soldier's return 
 
 I 
 
 Seven Summers long had fired the },'lens 
 
 With flush of heather glow ; 
 Seven Winters robed the sheeted liens 
 
 F'rom head to foot with snow, 
 And brought their human denizens 
 
 Alternate joy and woe. 
 When all those years were come and gone. 
 
 One calm October day 
 The dwellers of Glenmorriston 
 Forth-looking from their huts at dawn, 
 Beheld a traveller wandering on 
 
 The long glen w-est away. 
 Young he seemed, but travel-worn, 
 
 More weak of gait than youth should be — 
 A philabeg,' but soiled and torn. 
 Was round him — on his shoulder borne 
 
 A tartan plaid hung carelessly. 
 " Whence comes yon stranger .'' whither goes ? 
 
 They each to other wondering cry — 
 " Is he some wanderer from Kintail ? 
 
 1 Philabeg, Highlander's kill.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 69 
 
 Macdonald's land of Armadale ? 
 
 Or Macleod's country, far in Skye ? 
 Or haply some Clanranald man 
 
 From southern market makes his way 
 Back, where his home by hungry shore 
 Hears the Atlantic breakers roar 
 
 On Barra and Benbecula." 
 
 II 
 
 Unasked, unanswering, he passed on, 
 None spake to him, he spake to none ; 
 But while they questioned whence, and who. 
 Among themselves, they little knew 
 
 That this was Angus Cameron, 
 Southward he turned, and noonday found 
 Him high upon the mountain-ground, 
 Whence he beheld Glengarry's strath, 
 With its long winding river path 
 Streaming beneath him ; and discerned 
 Loch Ouoich, amid dark Scours inurned. 
 And all around it, east and west, 
 His eye wide-wandering went in quest 
 Of the old homesteads that he knew, 
 But the blue smoke from very few 
 Could he discover ; yet he wist 
 The rest were lost in haze and mist. 
 So west he turned throuijh mountain doors
 
 70 GLKN nKSSFKAV, OK 
 
 That open downward on the shores 
 
 Of lone Lochourn. In that deep pass 
 Still lay the little loch, reed-fringed. 
 
 With upper marge of greenest grass, 
 And birks beyond it, autumn-tinged. 
 
 He looked — the summer bothies bare, 
 
 All ruinous sank in disrepair ; 
 
 From them the voice of milking song 
 
 And laughter had been absent long. 
 
 He paused and listened, but no sound. 
 Save of the many rills that come 
 Down corrie-beds through the desert dumb 
 
 And over all the voice profound 
 Of the great cataract, high aloof, 
 Down flashing from the rock-wall roof 
 
 III 
 
 The solemn Pass he erst had known 
 Seemed still as lovely, but more lone, 
 As westward on with wear)' pace 
 He travelled, and no human face 
 Looked on him, no sound met his car 
 That told of man or far or near. 
 Late had waned the afternoon 
 
 Ere he reached Lochourn 's rough shore, 
 No gleam by random breezes strewn 
 
 Flitted its dark face o'er ; 
 
 I
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 71 
 
 'Neath leaden sky, the waters roU'd 
 More drear and sullen than of old, 
 And the silence of all human sounds, 
 Since he had passed Glengarry bounds, 
 Lay heavy on his loaded breast 
 With something of a dim unrest. 
 But one bright gleam of western day 
 On the scarr'd forehead of Lurvein lay : 
 And like an outstretched hand of hope 
 Seemed beckoning toward yonder cope 
 Of headland, that projects above 
 
 The sheltered home beside the burn, 
 Where first he met that young friend's love, 
 
 Who thither will no more return. 
 
 IV 
 
 But ere he reached the well-known spot, 
 This way and that he turned in thought — 
 How 'neath that roof he should declare 
 The burden of the tale he bare ; 
 How show to those poor hearts forlorn 
 The frail memorials he had borne 
 From the far field by Ebro's wave, 
 Where Ronald fills a soldier's grave ; 
 The plaid, whose every thread was spun 
 
 By Muriel's fingers — the holy book, 
 Which from his mother's hands the son
 
 72 GLEN DESSERAY, OR 
 
 Even at their last leave-takin<^ took— 
 The plaid, which Ronald oft had wound 
 'Neath cold night-heavens his breast around, 
 Discoloured, by the grape-shot torn. 
 In Angus' hands now homeward borne ; 
 That book he oft with reverent heed 
 By flickering camp-fires woke to read, 
 That tattered plaid, that treasured book. 
 
 Soiled with his latest life-blood's stains, 
 On these his loved ones' eyes must look — 
 
 Their all of him that now remains. 
 Then rose his inward sight before 
 
 Those faces — not as long ago — 
 But the mother's high brow furrowed o'er 
 
 Deep with the charact'ry of woe, 
 Which suffering years must have graven there- 
 And Muriel's cheek, though pale still fair, 
 Her large blue eyes, thro' weeping dim. 
 Gazing on these last wrecks of him. 
 
 V 
 
 But when he reached that headland's crown. 
 And stood beside the sole pine-tree. 
 
 O'er the sheer precipice gazing down, 
 Ah ! what a sight was there to see I 
 
 Two roofless gables, gaping blank. 
 
 In the damp sea-winds moss-o'ergrown,
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 73 
 
 And choaked with growth of nettles rank 
 
 The home-floor, and once warm hearth-stone. 
 
 One look sufficed — at once the whole 
 
 Sad history flashed upon his soul ; 
 
 He saw that household's ruined fate, 
 
 He knew that all was desolate. 
 
 With face to earth he cast him down, 
 As in a stupor long he lay, 
 
 And when he woke as from a swoon, 
 And looked abroad, last gleams of day 
 
 Even from the highest peaks were gone. 
 
 And the lone Loch lay shimmering wan ; 
 
 From that waste desolated shore 
 
 He turned away and looked no more. 
 
 VI 
 
 From that home, now no more a home. 
 Up through the dusky pines he clomb ; 
 Up and on, without let or bound, 
 On-clambering to the high lone ground 
 Where Knoydart, cloven by sheer defiles. 
 
 Yawns with torrent-roaring chasms, 
 Huddled screetan,i and rent rock-piles, 
 
 Nature's work in her wildest spasms : 
 Thei'e, as the darkness deeper fell 
 And going grew impossible, 
 
 1 Screeta?i, seep. 31.
 
 74 GLEN DESSEkAV, OK 
 
 Beneath a rock he laid his length, 
 As one bereft of hope and strength, 
 And if no further step he passed, 
 Content that this should be his last. 
 The hope, that had his heart sustained 
 
 Through years of toil, to ruin hurled — 
 What shelter any more remained 
 
 In this forsaken world ? 
 What but to share with this poor home 
 The desolation of its doom ? 
 But they the true, the gentle-hearted. 
 To what strange bourne had they departed ? 
 Dwell they in noisome city pent ? 
 Or are they tenants now, where rent 
 None ask, in that drear place of graves. 
 Which Nevish-Loch at full-tide laves ? 
 Or dwell they far o'er ocean — thrown 
 Like sea-waifs on some land unknown ? 
 
 All through that night, I heard him tell, 
 Strange sounds upon his hearing fell, 
 Weirdlier sounds than shriek of owl. 
 Wild cats' scream, hill-foxes' howl. 
 As though the ancient mountains, rent 
 To their deep foundations, sent 
 On the midnight moan on moan.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 75 
 
 Ghostly language of their own, 
 Converse terrible, austere. 
 Seldom heard by mortal ear. 
 Then in hurried blinks o' the moon 
 
 Cliff and crag dim-seen appeared 
 Haggard forms, like eldrich croon,^ 
 
 Or shapeless beings, vast and weird, 
 Formless passed before his face 
 Dwellers of that awesome place. 
 Angus had been used to bide 
 
 Foeman's shot and shell unmoved — 
 Badajos — Busaco tried, 
 
 And found his mettle unreproved. 
 Never before face of man 
 Had he quailed, but now there ran 
 Creepings cold thro' all his frame, 
 O'er his limbs strange trembling came, 
 And the hair upon his head 
 Rose erect with very dread 
 Of this place — this awesome hour, 
 When the nether world had power. 
 All he had listened to, as a child. 
 Of mountain glamourie dark and wild. 
 To harrow up the soul with fear, 
 Now palpable to eye and ear. 
 Seemed gathered to confront him here. 
 
 1 Eldrich croon, — Better explained as croon for crone, un- 
 earthly shape, as of an old woman.
 
 76 GLEN DESSERAV, OR 
 
 Never stood he so aghast, 
 Never through such night had passed, 
 But the dawning came at last : 
 And when earHest streaks of Hght 
 
 The eastern peaks had silver-barred. 
 Behold ! his tarrying place all night 
 
 None other was than Mam-clach-ard. 
 Forward then, 'mid the glimmer of dawn, 
 Through the rough Pass he wandered on, 
 And one by one stars faded on high, 
 As the tide of light washed up llie sky : 
 But when he reached the eastern door. 
 Where that high cloven Pass looks o'er 
 Lochiel's broad mountains, grisly and hoar. 
 The sun, new-ris'n from the under-world, 
 
 Had all the glens beneath outrolled, 
 Up the braes the mists had furled, 
 
 And touched their snowy fleeces with gold. 
 There far below, inlaid between 
 Steep mountain walls, lay calm and green 
 Glen Desseray, bright in morning sheen. 
 As down the rough track Angus trode 
 The path that led to his old abode. 
 Calm as of old the lone green glen 
 Lay stretched before him long miles ten ; 

 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 77 
 
 He looked, the braes as erst were fair, 
 But smoke none rose on the morning air ; 
 He Hstened, came no blithe cock-crowing 
 From wakening farms, no cattle-lowing, 
 No voice of man, no cry of child, 
 Blent with the loneness of the wild ; 
 Only the wind thro' the bent and ferns, 
 Only the moan of the corrie-burns. 
 
 IX 
 
 Can it be ? doth this silence tell 
 
 The same sad tale as yester-eve ? 
 My clansmen here who wont to dwell 
 
 Have they too ta'en their last long leave ? 
 Adown this glen too, hath there been 
 The besom of destruction keen 
 Sweeping it of its people clean ? 
 That anxious tremour in his breast 
 One half-hour onward set at rest : 
 Where once his home had been, now stare 
 Two gables, roofless, gaunt, and bare ; 
 Two gables, and a broken wall, 
 Are all now left of Sheniebhal. 
 The huts around of the old farm-toun. 
 
 Wherein the poorer tenants dwelt, 
 Moss-covered stone-heaps, crumbling down, 
 
 Into the wilderness slowly melt.
 
 78 Cil.KN- D1:SS1:UA\, UK 
 
 Tlic slopes below, where had gardens been, 
 
 Lay thick with rushes darkly green, 
 
 The furrows on the braes above 
 
 Where erst the flax and the barley throve, 
 
 With ferns and heather covered o'er, 
 
 To Nature had gone back once more. 
 
 And there beneath, the meadow lay. 
 
 The long smooth reach of meadowy ground. 
 Where intertwining east away 
 
 In loop on loop the river wound : 
 There, where he heard a former day 
 The blithe, loud shouting, shinty play, 
 
 Was silence now as the grave profound. 
 A few steps led to the Mound of the Cave, 
 A hillock strewn with many a grave, — 
 Lone place, to which some far and faint 
 Remembrance of Columban Saint 
 Come, ages gone, from the Isle of ^V 
 Gave immemorial sanctity. 
 There children lost in life's first day 
 Whom to Kilmallie (that long way). 
 They did not l^ear, w^ere laid to sleep, 
 That o'er them kindred watch might keep. 
 And mothers thither steal to weep. 
 There he himself in childhood's morn 
 Had seen two infants, younger-born, 
 ' Y, corruptly called Zona.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 79 
 
 His own sweet brothers, laid to rest ; 
 And now he came in loving quest 
 To see their Httle graves, but they 
 From sight had melted quite away, — 
 'Neath touch of time's obscure effacing 
 
 Had passed unto the waste around, 
 And now no eye could mark the tracing 
 
 'Twixt holy earth, and common ground. 
 
 X 
 
 Then looking back with one wide ken. 
 
 Where stood the Farms, each side the glen — 
 
 Tom-na-hua, Cuil, Glach-fern, 
 
 Each he clearly could discern ; 
 
 Once groups of homes, wherein did dwell 
 
 The people he had known so well. 
 
 These stood blank skeletons, one and all, 
 
 Like his own home, Sheniebhal ; 
 
 And he sighed as he gazed on the pathways 
 
 untrodden, 
 " These be the homes of the men of Culloden 1 " 
 
 " This desolation ! whence hath come ? 
 What power hath hushed this living glen 
 Once blithe with happy sounds of men 
 
 Into a wilderness blank and dumb ? 
 Alas for them ! leal souls and true I 
 Kindred and clansmen whom I knew !
 
 8o r.LKN DESSERAV, OK 
 
 Their homes stand roofless on the brae, 
 
 And the hearts that loved them, where are they 
 
 Ah me ! what days with them I've seen 
 
 On the summer braes at the shealings green ! 
 
 What nights of winter dark and long 
 
 Made brief and bright by the joy of song ! 
 
 The men in peace so gentle and mild, 
 
 In battle onset lion-wild, 
 
 When the pibroch of Donald Uhu 
 
 Sounded the summons of Lochiel, 
 From these homes to his standard flew. 
 
 By him stood through woe and weal, 
 Against Clan-Chattan, age by age 
 Held his ancient heritage : 
 And when the Stuart cause was down, 
 And Lochiel rose for King and Crown, 
 Who like these same Cameron men 
 
 Gave their gallant heart-blood pure 
 At Inverlochy, Killiecrankie, 
 
 Preston-pans, Culloden Muir ? 
 And when red vengeance on the Gael 
 Fell bloody, did their fealty fail ? 
 Did they not screen with lives of men 
 Their outlawed Prince in desert and den ? 
 And when their Chief fled far away. 
 Who were his sole support but they ? 
 Alas for them 1 those faithful men '.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN Si 
 
 And this is all reward they have I 
 These unroofed homes, this emptied glen 
 A forlorn exile, then the grave." 
 
 XI 
 
 That night, as October winds were tiding ^ 
 
 The birchen woods down Lochiel's long shore, 
 The wan, dead leaves on the rain-blast whirling, 
 
 A low knock came to our cottage door. 
 " Lift the latch, bid him welcome," cried my sire. 
 
 Straight a plaided stranger entered in, 
 And w-e saw by the light of the red peat fire, 
 
 A long, lank form, and a visage thin. 
 We children- stared — as tho' a ghost 
 
 Had crossed the door — on that face unknown : 
 But my father cried — " O loved and lost ! 
 
 That voice, my brother, is thine own." 
 Then each on the other's neck they fell. 
 
 And long embraced, and wept aloud ; 
 We children stood — I remember well — ■ 
 
 Our heads in wondering silence bowed. 
 But when our uncle raised his head. 
 Gazing around the house, he said — 
 " I've travelled down Glen Desseray bare. 
 
 Looked on our desolate home to-day. 
 
 But those my heart most longed for, where ? 
 
 ^ Tirling, slightly touching, thrilling. 
 G
 
 82 GLEN DESSEKAV, OR 
 
 Father and mother, where are they ? 
 For them has their own country found 
 No home, save underneath the ground ? ' 
 
 " Too truly has your heart divined," 
 My father answered him, " for they 
 Came hither but not long to stay — 
 With the fall o' the year away they dwined, 
 Not loth another home to find, 
 
 Where none could say them nay. 
 Above their heads to-night the sward 
 Is green in Kilmallie's old kirkyard." 
 
 XII 
 
 In vain for him the board we strewed, 
 
 He little cared for rest or food — 
 
 On this alone intent — to know, 
 
 Whence had come the ruin and woe. 
 
 " Tell me, O tell me whence," he cried, 
 
 " Hath spread this desolation wide ; 
 
 What ministers of dark despair — 
 
 From nether pit or upper air — 
 
 On the poor country of the Gael, 
 
 Have breathed this blasting blight and bale. 
 
 By lone Lochourn, too, I have been, 
 
 And Runieval in ruin seen ; 
 
 I know that home is desolate — 
 
 Tell me the dwellers' earthly fate."
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN S3 
 
 " Ah, these are gone, with many more,"' 
 
 My father said, " to a far-off shore. 
 
 By some great lake, whereof we know 
 
 Only the name — Ontario. 
 
 They tell us there are broad lands there, 
 
 Whereof whoever will may share, 
 
 Great forests — trees of giant stem — 
 
 Glen-mallie pines are naught to them. 
 
 But of all that we nothing know. 
 
 Save the great name, Ontario." 
 
 "But whence came all this ruin ? Tell 
 
 From whom the cruel outrage fell, 
 
 On our poor people." With a sigh 
 
 My father fain had put him by ; 
 
 " A tale so full of sorrow and wrong. 
 
 To-night to tell were all too long. 
 
 Weary and hungry thou need'st must be — 
 
 Sit down at the board we have spread for thee I " 
 
 I wot we had spread it of our best. 
 
 But for him our dainties had little zest ; 
 
 Nor would he eat or drink, until 
 
 Of that dark tale he had heard his fill. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Not many days my father's roof 
 
 That soldier-brother could retain ; 
 To wander to far lands aloof
 
 84 GLEN DESSERAV, OR 
 
 His heart was on the strain. 
 But while within our home he stayed, 
 
 He turned him every day, 
 To where, in sombre beech-trees' shade 
 His parents both are lowly laid, 
 
 'Neath mountain flag-stone grey. 
 The last time that he lingered there, 
 
 Some moss he gathered fiom the grave, 
 The one memorial he could bear. 
 Where'er his wandering feet might fare. 
 
 Beyond the western wave. 
 And then he left my father's door, 
 And bidding farewell evermore 
 To dwellers on this mountain shore. 
 He set his face to that world afar, 
 On which descends the evening star. 
 We never knew what there befell — 
 Some said that he found Muriel, 
 With her old parents yet alive. 
 Where still Glengarry clansmen thrive, • 
 And there, on great Ontario's side. 
 He led her home, his wedded bride. 
 But others whispered 'twas not so — 
 That ere he came her head was low. 
 And nothing left him but to keep. 
 Far in primeval forest deep, 
 Watch o'er his loved one's lonely sleep.
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN 85 
 
 And her poor parents' age to tend, 
 Till they should to the grave descend. 
 Authentic voice none o'er the sea 
 Came, telling how these things might be — 
 His fate in that far land was dumb. 
 And silent as the world to come. 
 We only know such fervent thought 
 Of all the past within him wrought, 
 That, ere he sailed, he turned aside, 
 That dreary moor to wander o'er, 
 Where the last gleam of Albyn's pride 
 In blood went down to rise no more ; 
 And while the bark on Moray Firth, 
 That bore him from his native earth, 
 Waited the breeze to fill her sail. 
 This coronach, this woful wail, 
 He breathed for the down-trodden Gael. 
 
 I 
 The moorland wide, and waste, and brown. 
 Heaves far and near, and up and down — 
 Few trenches green the desert crown. 
 
 And these are the graves of CuUoden ! 
 
 2 
 What mournful thoughts to me they yield. 
 Gazing with sorrow yet unhealed. 
 On Scotland's last and saddest field — 
 O ! the desolate Moor of Culloden !
 
 86 GLEN DESSERAV, OR 
 
 3 
 
 Ah nie ! what carnage vain was there I 
 What reckless fury — mad despair ! 
 On this wide moor such odds to dare — 
 O, the wasted Hves of Culloden I 
 
 4 
 For them laid there, the brave and young, 
 How many a mother's heart was wrung 1 
 How many a coronach sad was sung, 
 
 O, the green, green graves of Culloden .' 
 
 5 
 What boots it now to point and tell, 
 Here the Clan Chattan bore them well. 
 Shame-maddened, yonder Keppoch fell — 
 Lavish of life on Culloden. 
 
 Here Camerons clove the red line through, 
 There Stuarts dared what men could do. 
 Charged lads of Athole, staunch and true, 
 To the cannon mouths on Culloden. 
 
 7 
 In vain the wild onset — in vain 
 Claymores cleft English skulls in twain —
 
 THE SEQUEL OF CULLODEN S7 
 
 The cannon fire poured in like rain, 
 
 Mowing down the clans on Culloden. 
 
 8 
 
 Through all the glens, from shore to shore, 
 What wailing went ! but that is o'er — 
 Hearts now are cold, that once were sore. 
 For the loved ones lost on Culloden. 
 
 9 
 
 — The Highlands all one hunting ground. 
 Where men are few, and deer abound, 
 And desolation broods profound 
 
 O'er the homes of the men of Culloden. 
 
 10 
 
 That, too, will pass — the hunter's deer, 
 The drover's sheep will disappear, 
 But when another race will you rear. 
 
 Like the men that died at Culloden ?
 
 88 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN WALK ^ 
 
 PART I 
 
 From beaten paths and common tasks reprieved, 
 
 My face I set towards the lonely grounds 
 Where INIoidart and Lochaber, northward heaved, 
 Meet with rough Knoydart bounds. 
 
 And with me went an aged man on whom 
 
 Still lightly hung his threescore years and ten. 
 Intent to see once more before the tomb 
 His long-unpeopled glen. 
 
 O'er "Faeth,"2 "Maam," " Gual," each shape of 
 mountain-pass, 
 From morn to eve, an autumn day we clomb 
 A lone waste wilderness where no man was, 
 Nor any human home ; 
 
 And looked o'er mountain backs, misty or bared, 
 Ridged multitudinous to the northern bourn, 
 
 ' See Note at end. 
 
 - In Gaelic Feith, sluggish pool in marshy moorland ; Mam, 
 high rounded hill ; Guala, high ridge, literally shoulder.
 
 THE MOUNTAIN WALK 89 
 
 Where high o'er all the great scours 1 watch and guard 
 Loch Nevish and Lochourn ; 
 
 Saw far to west through yawning gaps upleap 
 
 Dark Moidart mountains with their clov'n defiles, 
 And here and there let in the great blue deep, 
 With the far outer Isles ; 
 
 While close beneath our feet clear streams were 
 flowing 
 Down long glens walled the steep dark hills between, 
 With their long streaks of grassy margin glowing 
 Bright with resplendent sheen. 
 
 And by the stream's grass-mounds and grey-mossed 
 heaps 
 Lay, once the homes where thriving men had been, 
 And far up corries,^ where the white burn leaps, 
 Were pleasant airidhs '^ green. 
 
 But no smoke rose from any old abode ; 
 
 From the green summer shealings came no song. 
 No face of man looked on us where we trode, 
 From dawn to gloamin' long. 
 
 Only high up hoarse-barking raven's croak 
 
 Knelled on the iron crags, or glead's wild screams, 
 
 ^ Scours, here used for rocky frowning heights. 
 2 Carries, hillside hollows. ^ Airidhs, shealing-pastures.
 
 90 TIIK MOUNTAIN- WALK 
 
 And down the awful precipices broke 
 The everlasting streams ; 
 
 The while the old man told how times remote 
 
 Had named the balloch ^ from some famous man, 
 Slain in old battle when the Camerons smote 
 Their foes of Chattan clan ; 
 
 Or on " the squally shoulder" he would pause, 
 
 And, pointing to grey stones, would whisper, " Here 
 The mourners builded Evan's cairn, because 
 They rested with his bier 
 
 " On the long journey from his native glen, 
 
 Down to his last home by the sea-loch side ; " 
 And, " There by night and weariness o'erta'en, 
 Long since a shepherd died." 
 
 And then more lightly, " O'er these very knowes^ 
 
 I ran the browse ^ upon my wedding-day 
 With other lads to win my young bride's house. 
 Now fifty years away." 
 
 Late in the afternoon my steps he stayed 
 
 On a high mountain pass, and bade me look, 
 Where the burn, plunging from the height, had made 
 One small and sheltered nook : 
 
 1 Balloch, naiTOW pass. - Kncnves, knolls. 
 
 ' Browse, horse race run sometimes at country weddings.
 
 THE MOUNTAIN WALK 91 
 
 "Beneath that bank we rested us at eve, 
 
 The first day's weary journey ended, when 
 Full sixty years since we were forced to leave 
 For ever our dear glen. 
 
 " A day it was of lamentation sore. 
 
 As we set face against the steep ascent, 
 Slowly the lowing cattle moved before. 
 Behind we weeping went. 
 
 " And well we might ; the old folk from that day 
 Found never home like that they had resigned ; 
 And we — thenceforth our happy childhood lay 
 In that far glen behind." 
 
 And so with talk like this the day wore on, 
 
 No rock unnamed, no cairn without its tale, 
 Till, from the western scours ^ the last gleams gone. 
 To the deep-shadowed vale 
 
 Down through Leaena-vaata slow we passed, 
 " The hollow of the wolf," so named of old, 
 Since hunters there o'ertook and slew the last 
 Grim spoiler of the fold. 
 
 There where Loch Aragat hath his utmost bound 
 
 And from the western glens the waters meet. 
 Beneath the kindly shepherd's roof we found 
 Welcome, and warm retreat. 
 
 ^ Scours, here used for mountain-tops.
 
 92 THE MOUNTAIN WALK 
 
 PART II 
 
 All night enfolded in the lap of Bens,^ 
 
 Around our sleep the loud and lulling sound 
 Of many waters meeting from the glens 
 Made lullaby profound. 
 
 Next day the westering morn our guide we make, 
 
 Where a strong stream in jambs of granite pent, 
 From pool to pool, down-plunging to the lake, 
 Hath grooved itself a vent. 
 
 That strait throat passed, back falls the mountain's 
 bound, 
 Before us there out-spread in silence, lay, 
 With loop on loop of river interwound, 
 Long, green Glen Desseray. 
 
 A long, flat, meadowy, strath of natural grass, 
 
 Where calm, from side to side, the river flows, 
 After the turmoil of yon splintered pass, 
 Loitering in slow repose. 
 
 Each side steep mountain-flanks wall the green flat. 
 
 To west the long glen closes, grimly barred 
 By the stem-precipiced shelves of Scour-na-naat 
 And by dark Maam-clach-ard. 
 
 1 Ben, mountain-head ; by metaphor used for the mountain 
 itself.
 
 THE MOUNTAIN WALK 93 
 
 There as we stood on the mute glen to gaze 
 
 The old man pointed to the hillocks green, 
 Where, either side the strath, in former days, 
 The Clansmen's homes had been ; 
 
 Homes that had reared the Camerons, who in old 
 
 Centuries of ceaseless battle, true and leal. 
 Against Clan Chattan had been brave to hold 
 His country for Lochiel ; 
 
 Who, in the latest rising of the clans. 
 
 For King and Chief, devoted hearts and pure, 
 Had led the crashing charge at Preston-pans, 
 Died on Culloden moor. 
 
 For all those homesteads only here and there 
 
 A gaunt, grey, weathered gable — for the hum 
 Of many human voices, on the air 
 Blank, aweful silence dumb. 
 
 Only the hill-burns down the corries broke, 
 
 Only one hern harsh-screaming from the fen. 
 And but one shepherd's solitary smoke, 
 Far in the upper glen. 
 
 Then, one by one, the old man, sad at heart. 
 
 Pointed the stances,^ where in childhood time 
 From four blithe farm-towns, each a mile apart, 
 He had seen the blue smoke climb. 
 1 Stances, sites.
 
 94 THE MOUNTAIN WALK 
 
 Two on the north side, dry on ferny knowes, 
 
 The noonday sun had welcomed with frank look, 
 The southern two, withdrawn 'neath high-hill brows, 
 Each cower'd in bielded ^ nook. 
 
 Then closer drawing 'neath rank weeds he showed 
 
 The larachs - of the homes, wall, hearth and floor, 
 Where in each town large brotherhoods abode. 
 Twelve families and more. 
 
 And as he traced each home, the names he told 
 Of men and women who there once had been. 
 How lived and died they in wild days of old. 
 What weirdly sights had seen. 
 
 And last he led me to his own farm-town, 
 
 Even to his father's home — there lay the hearth 
 Grey-lichened, walls around it crumbled down. 
 Till all but blent with earth. 
 
 ''There yawned the window to the crag behind, 
 
 Through which my grandsire gallant burst away, 
 When two red-coats, who had him in the wind. 
 After Culloden day, 
 
 " The threshold crossed to seize him ; fleet of foot. 
 He took the crag — they fired and missed their aim, 
 
 ^ Bielded, sheltered. - Larachs, foundations.
 
 THE MOUNTAIN WALK 95 
 
 Then, throwing down their guns, in hot pursuit, 
 Fast on his track they came. 
 
 " He slacked his speed, and let the foremost near, 
 Then heaved a slag 1 of rock, and laid him low ; 
 The chase was over — he left free from fear. 
 Forth to the hills to go." 
 
 And then, with lowered voice and deepened feeling, 
 
 Pointing one spot upon the floor, he said, 
 " Here on these very stones we bairns were kneeling, 
 And there my father prayed, 
 
 " One stormy Sabbath-night, when wild winds hurried 
 
 A loosened snow-heap from the crag, and o'er 
 The rigging - rolled it clean, and deeply buried 
 The house, and blocked the door 
 
 " With a great boulder." These and many more 
 
 Tales through the glen beguiled us west away 
 O'er Maam-clach-ard to dark Loch Nevish's shore 
 Down with declining day. 
 
 There, 'neath a roof, where people of the old kind 
 
 Still keep the ancient faith, through the deep calm. 
 All night we heard the cataracts behind 
 Down-thundering from the Maam ; 
 
 ^ Sld^, loose fragment. ^ Rigging, roof.
 
 96 THE MOUNTAIN WALK 
 
 The while they told liow oft wlicn no wind stirred, 
 
 Unearthly sounds the mountain stillness rent 
 At midnight, by belated travellers heard, 
 As through the Maam they went ; 
 
 And apparitions when the spirit fled, 
 
 Crossing the gaze of melancholy seers. 
 And trystings where the living met the dead 
 By lonely mountain meres ; 
 
 All the weird, visionary lore that lives 
 
 Still by the dim lochs of the western sea. 
 And to that region and its people gives 
 Strange eerie glamourie. 
 
 Next morn we clomb the Maam with eastward foot 
 
 And walked the higher ranges of the glen. 
 Looked on green summer shealings, long left mute 
 By old Glen-Desseray men. 
 
 One last look back — there lay the glen inlaid 
 
 Deep in its walling hills — a meadowy strath. 
 Through which in loop on loop the river strayed, 
 A slowly-winding path. 
 
 And all the west, jagg'd precipices riven 
 
 With gorge and gully and ravine black-gloomed, 
 Closed in — above them in the twilight heaven 
 The great peaks ghostly loomed.
 
 THE MOUNTAIN WALK 97 
 
 AH these days, as we wandered, morn to eve, 
 
 The old man, piece by piece, the tale unrolled. 
 How once the Cameron clansmen wont to live 
 Within these glens of old. 
 
 Things too his grandsire and his sire had seen, 
 
 After Culloden, till the ruthless time 
 That swept the glens of all their people clean, 
 Things mute in prose or rhyme. 
 
 Written before 1870. 
 
 H
 
 98 
 
 A DREAM OF GLEN-SALLACH ^ 
 
 That summer glen is far away, 
 
 Who loved me then, their graves are green, 
 But still that dell and distant day. 
 
 Lie bright in memory's softest sheen. 
 
 Are these still there, outspread in space, 
 
 The grey mossed-trees, the mountain stream ? 
 
 Or in some ante-natal place, 
 
 That only cometh back in dream ? 
 
 There first upon my soul was cast 
 
 Dim reverence, blent with glorious thrills, 
 
 From out an old heroic past, 
 
 Lapped in the older calm of hills. 
 
 Still after thirty summers loom 
 
 On dreaming hours the lichened trees. 
 
 The ivied walls, the warrior's tomb, 
 'Mid those old mountain sanctities. 
 
 How awed I stood ! where once had kneeled 
 The pilgrims by the holy well, 
 
 ^ See Note at end.
 
 A DREAM OF GLEN-SALLACH 99 
 
 O'er which, through centuries unrepealed, 
 Rome's consecration still doth dwell. 
 
 How crept among the broken piles ! 
 
 And clansmen's grave-stones moss-o'ergrown, 
 Where rests the Lord of all the Isles, 
 
 With plaid and claymore graven in stone. 
 
 In deep of noon, mysterious dread 
 Fell on me in that glimmering glen. 
 
 Till, as from haunted ground, I fled 
 Back to the kindly homes of men. 
 
 Thanks to that glen ! its scenery blends 
 With childhood's most ideal hour, 
 
 When Highland hills I made my friends, 
 First owned their beauty, felt their power. 
 
 Still, doubtless, o'er Kilbrannan Sound, 
 As lovely lights from Arran gleam, 
 
 'Mid hills that gird Glen-Sallach round, 
 As happy children dream their dream. 
 
 The western sea, as deep of tone. 
 
 Is murmuring 'gainst that caverned shore ; 
 
 But, one whole generation gone. 
 
 No more those haunts are ours, no more. 
 
 This poem, and the six following, were published in 1864.
 
 lOO 
 
 THE MOOR OF RANNOCH 
 
 O'er the dreary moor of Rannoch 
 Calm these hours of Sabbath shine ; 
 
 But no kirk-bell here divideth 
 Week-day toil from rest divine. 
 
 Ages pass, but save the tempest, 
 Nothing here makes toil or haste ; 
 
 Busy weeks nor restful Sabbath 
 Visit this abandoned waste. 
 
 Long ere prow of earliest savage 
 Grated on blank Albyn's shore, 
 
 Lay these drifts of granite boulders. 
 Weather-bleached and lichened o'er. 
 
 Beuchaille Etive's furrowed visage, 
 To Schihallion looked sublime, 
 
 O'er a wide and wasted desert. 
 Old and unreclaimed as time.
 
 THE MOOR OF RANNOCH loi 
 
 Yea ! a desert wide and wasted, 
 
 Washed by rain-floods to the bones ; 
 
 League on league of heather blasted, 
 
 Storm-gashed moss, grey boulder-stones ; 
 
 And along these dreary levels, 
 As by some stern destiny placed, 
 
 Yon sad lochs of black moss water 
 Grimly gleaming on the waste ; 
 
 East and west, and northward sweeping. 
 
 Limitless the mountain plain, 
 Like a vast low heaving ocean, 
 
 Girdled by its mountain chain : 
 
 Plain, o'er which the kingliest eagle, 
 Ever screamed by dark Lochowe, 
 
 Fain would droop a laggard pinion. 
 Ere he touched Ben-Aulder's brow : 
 
 Mountain-girdled, — there Bendoran 
 
 To Schihallion calls aloud, 
 Beckons he to lone Ben-Aulder, 
 
 He to Nevis crowned with cloud. 
 
 Cradled here old Highland rivers, 
 
 Etive, Cona, regal Tay, 
 Like the shout of clans to battle, 
 
 Down the gorges break away.
 
 102 tup: moor of rannoch 
 
 And the Atlantic sends his pipers 
 Up yon thunder-throated glen, 
 
 O'er the moor at midnight sounding 
 Pibrochs never heard by men. 
 
 Clouds, and mists, and rains before them 
 Crowding to the wild wind tune. 
 
 Here to wage their all-night battle, 
 Unbeheld by star and moon. 
 
 Loud the while down all his hollows, 
 Flashing with a hundred streams, 
 
 Corrie-bah from out the darkness 
 To the desert roars and gleams. 
 
 Sterner still, more drearly driven. 
 
 There o' nights the north wind raves, 
 
 His long homeless lamentation. 
 As from Arctic seamen's graves. 
 
 Till his mighty snow-sieve shaken 
 Down hath blinded all the lift.^ 
 
 Hid the mountains, plunged the moorland 
 Fathom-deep in mounded drift. 
 
 Such a time, while yells of slaughter 
 Burst at midnight on Glencoe, 
 
 Hither flying babes and mothers 
 Perished 'mid the waste of snow, 
 1 Lift, sky.
 
 THE MOOR OF RANNOCH 103 
 
 Countless storms have scrawled unheeded 
 Characters o'er these houseless moors ; 
 
 But that night engraven forever 
 In all human hearts endures. 
 
 Yet the heaven denies not healing 
 
 To the darkest human things, 
 And to-day some kindlier feeling 
 
 Sunshine o'er the desert flings. 
 
 Though the long deer-grass is moveless, 
 And the corrie-burns ^ are dry ; 
 
 Music comes in gleams and shadows 
 Woven beneath the dreaming eye. 
 
 Desert not deserted wholly ! 
 
 Where such calms as these can come, — 
 Never tempest more majestic 
 
 Than this boundless silence dumb. 
 
 1 Corrie-burn, stream in hollow on hillside.
 
 I04 
 
 THE LASS OF LOCH LINNE 
 
 The spray may drive, the rain may pour, 
 Knee-deep in brine, what careth she ? 
 
 Her brother's boat she'll drag to shore, 
 Aloud she'll sing her Highland glee. 
 
 Her feet and head alike all bare, 
 
 A drenched plaid swathed about her form. 
 Around her floats the Highland air, 
 
 Within the Highland blood beats warm. 
 
 All night they've toiled and not in vain : 
 To count and store the fish be thine ; 
 
 Then drench thy clothes in morning rain, 
 And dry them in the noon sunshine ! 
 
 The gleam breaks through, the day will clear, 
 Then to the peats up yonder glen ; 
 
 O there is life and freedom here I 
 
 That cannot breathe 'mid throngs of men.
 
 THE LASS OF LOCH LIXNE 105 
 
 What has thy life and history been ? 
 
 Brave lass upon this wind-beat shore ! 
 I may not guess — at distance seen, 
 
 A nameless image, and no more. 
 
 Sweet chime the sea beside thy home. 
 
 Thy fire blink bright on heartsome meal ! 
 
 No more of dearth or clearance come 
 To darken down thine own Lochiel !
 
 io6 
 
 THE FOREST OF SLl'-GAOIL 
 
 THAT IS, THE HILL OF LOVE ^ 
 
 In this bare treeless forest lone, 
 By winds Atlantic overblown, 
 I sit and hear the weird wind pass 
 Drearily through the long bent-grass ; 
 And think how that low sighing heard 
 By Ossian, when no wind was stirred, 
 Filled his old sightless eyes with tears. 
 His soul with thoughts of other years, 
 For the spirits of the men he mourned 
 In that low eerie sound returned. 
 
 And doth not this bleak forest ground 
 Live in old epic song renowned ? 
 Of him the chief who came of yore 
 To hunting of the mighty boar. 
 And left the deed, to float along 
 The dateless stream of Highland song, 
 A maid's lorn love, a chiefs death-toil, 
 Still speaking in thy name, Sli'-gaoil! 
 
 ^ See Note at end.
 
 THE FOREST OF SLI'-GAOIL 107 
 
 Well now may harp of Ossian moan, 
 
 Through long bent-grass and worn grey stone : 
 
 But how could song so long ago, 
 
 Come loaded with still elder wo ? 
 
 Were then, as now, these hills o'ercast 
 
 With shadows of some long-gone past ? 
 
 Did winds, that wandered o'er them, chime 
 
 Melodies of a lorn foretime ? 
 
 As now, the very mountain burns 
 
 For something sigh that not returns ?
 
 loS 
 
 RETURN TO NATURE 
 
 On the braes i around Glenfinnan 
 Fast the human homes are thinning, 
 And the wilderness is winning 
 
 To itself these graves again. 
 Names or dates here no man knoweth, 
 O'er grey headstones heather groweth, 
 Up Loch-Shiel the sea-wind bloweth 
 
 Over sleep of nameless men. 
 
 Who were those forgotten sleepers ? 
 Herdsmen strong, fleet forest-keepers, 
 Aged men, or widowed weepers 
 
 For their foray-fallen ones ? 
 Babes cut off 'mid childhood's prattle, 
 -Men who lived with herds and cattle. 
 Clansmen from Culloden battle, 
 
 Camerons, or Clandonald's sons ? 
 
 Blow ye winds, and rains effacing ! 
 Blur the words of love's fond tracing-' 
 
 ^ Braes, hillsides.
 
 RETURN TO NATURE 109 
 
 Nature to herself embracing 
 
 All that human hearts would keep : 
 
 What they knew of good or evil 
 
 Faded, like the dim primeval 
 
 Day that saw the vast upheaval 
 Of these hills that hold their sleep.
 
 no 
 
 CAILLEACH BEIN-Y-VREICH ' 
 
 Weird wife of 15ein-y-Vreich ! horo ! horo I 
 
 Aloft in the mist she dwells ; 
 Vreich horo ! Vreich horo ! Vreich horo ! 
 
 All alone by the lofty wells. 
 
 Weird, weird wife ! with the long grey locks, 
 
 She follows her fleet-foot stags, 
 Noisily moving through splintered rocks. 
 
 And crashing the grisly crags. 
 
 Tall wife ! with the long grey hose, in haste 
 The rough stony beach she walks ; 
 
 But dulse - or seaweed she will not taste. 
 Nor yet the green kail stalks. 
 
 And I will not let my herds of deer. 
 
 My bonny red deer go down ; 
 I will not let them down to the shore. 
 
 To feed on the sea-shells brown. 
 
 O better they love in the corrie's recess. 
 Or on mountain top to dwell, 
 
 ^ See Note at end. - Dulse, sea-celery.
 
 CAILLEACH BEIN-Y-VREICH in 
 
 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. 
 
 ^ Bield, shelter.
 
 112 
 
 DESOLATION 
 
 By the wee birchen corries He patches of green, 
 Where gardens and bareheaded bairnies have been, 
 But the huts now are rickles ^ of stones nettle-grown, 
 And the once human homes, e'en their names are 
 unknown. 
 
 But the names that this side the Atlantic have perished, 
 'Mid far western forests still dearly are cherished, 
 There men talk of each spot, on the hills that surround 
 Their long vanished dwellings, as paradise ground. 
 
 Not a pass in these hills, not a cairn, nor a corrie, 
 But lives by the log-fire in legend and story ; 
 And darkly the cloud on their countenance gathers. 
 As they think on those desolate homes of their 
 fathers. 
 
 O hearts, to the hills of old memory true ! 
 
 In the land of your love there are mourners for you, 
 
 ^ Rickles, heaps.
 
 DESOLATION ir 
 
 As they wander by peopleless lochside and glen, 
 Where the red deer are feeding o'er homesteads of 
 men. 
 
 For the stillness they feel o'er the wilderness spread 
 Is not nature's own silence, but that of the dead ; 
 E'en the lone piping plover, and small corrie burn 
 Seem sighing for those that will never return.
 
 114 
 
 A CRY FROM CRAIG-ELLACHIE 
 
 Composed after travelling to Inverness for the first 
 time in the newly-opened highland railway, 1864 
 
 I 
 
 Land of bens and glens and corries, 
 Headlong rivers, ocean floods ! 
 Have we lived to see this outrage 
 On your haughty solitudes ? 
 
 Yea ! there burst invaders stronger 
 On the mountain-barriered land, 
 Than the Ironsides of Cromwell, 
 Or the bloody Cumberland. 
 
 Spanning Tay, and curbing Tummel, 
 Hewing with rude mattocks down 
 Killiecrankie's birchen chasm ; 
 What reck they of old renown ? 
 
 Cherished names ! how disenchanted ! 
 Hark the railway porter roar, —
 
 A CRY FROM CRAIG-ELLACHIE ii. 
 
 " Ho ! Blair Athole ! Dalna-spidal ! 
 Ho 1 Dalwhinnie ! Aviemore ! " 
 
 Garry, cribbed with mound and rampart, 
 Up his chafing bed we sweep ; 
 Scare from his lone lochani-cradle 
 The charmed immemorial sleep. 
 
 Grisly, storm-resounding Badenoch, 
 With grey boulders scattered o'er, 
 And cairns of forgotten battles, 
 Is a wilderness no more. 
 
 Ha ! we start the ancient stillness, 
 Swinging down the long incline, 
 Over Spey, by Rothiemurchus' 
 Forests of primeval pine. 
 
 )' 9. 
 
 3 
 
 Grant 
 
 " Boar of Badenoch," " Sow of Athole, 
 Hill by hill behind me cast, 
 Rock and craig and moorland reeling, 
 Scarce Craig-Ellachie stands fast.^ 
 
 Dark Glen More and cloven Glen Feschie, 
 Loud along these desolate tracts 
 
 ^ Lochan, small lake. 
 
 - Two neighbouring mountains, thus named. 
 
 Stand fast, Craig-Ellachie," is the war-cry of the Clan
 
 Ii6 A CRY FROM CRAIG-ELLACHIE 
 
 Hear the shrieking whistle louder 
 Than their headlong cataracts. 
 
 On, still on — let drear Culloden 
 For clan-slogans ^ hear the scream — 
 Shake, ye woods by Beauly river, 
 Start, thou beauty-haunted Dhruim. 
 
 Northward still the iron horses I 
 Naught may stay their destined path 
 Till they snort by Pentland surges, 
 Stun the cliffs of far Cape Wrath. 
 
 II 
 
 Must then pass, quite disappearing 
 From their glens, the ancient Gael ? 
 In and in must Saxon wriggle. 
 Southern, cockney, more prevail ? 
 
 Clans long gone, and pibrochs going, 
 Shall the patriarchal tongue 
 From the mountains fade for ever 
 With its names and memories hung ? 
 
 Ah 1 you say, it little recketh ; 
 Let the ancient manners go : 
 
 1 Clan-slogan, war-cr)'.
 
 A CRY FROM CRAIG-ELLACHIE 117 
 
 Heaven will work, through their destroying, 
 Some end greater than you know. 
 
 Be it so, but will Invention, 
 With her smooth mechanic arts. 
 Bid arise the old Highland warriors, 
 Beat again warm Highland hearts ? 
 
 Nay ! whate'er of good they herald, 
 Whereso' comes that hideous roar, 
 The old charm is disenchanted, 
 The old Highlands are no more. 
 
 HI 
 
 Yet, I know there lie all lonely, 
 Still to feed thought's loftiest mood, 
 Countless glens undesecrated. 
 Many an awful solitude. 
 
 Many a burn, in unknown corries 
 Down dark rocks the white foam flings, 
 Fringed with ruddy berried rowans, 
 Fed from everlasting springs. 
 
 Still there sleep unnumbered lochans 
 Far away 'mid deserts dumb, 
 Where no human roar yet travels, 
 Never tourist's foot hath come.
 
 ii8 A CRY FROM CRAKl-F.LLACIIIE 
 
 Many a scour,i nkg bald sea-eagle, 
 Scalped all white with boulder piles, 
 Stands against the sunset, eyeing 
 Ocean and the outmost Isles. 
 
 If e'en these should fail, I'll get me 
 To some rock roared round by seas : 
 There to drink calm Nature's freedom 
 Till they bridge the Hebrides. 
 
 1 Scour, rocky prominent height.
 
 119 
 
 BEN CRUACHAN 
 
 Once more by mighty Cruachan, and once more 
 
 Across fair isleted Lochowe, 
 I gaze upon the wood-fringed precipiced shore, 
 Up the broad girth of green, the gorges hoar, 
 
 To that majestic brow. 
 
 Between Lochowe and Etive how that pile 
 
 Fills all the interspace ! and bars 
 With his great feet yon river-girt defile, 
 His lonely forehead communing the while 
 
 With cloud and sun and stars. 
 
 3 
 
 And then thy wealth of waters — here they creep, 
 
 Lapping thy feet with tender lave ; 
 Yon salt sea-tides around thy basement sweep, 
 While midway down from crags great cataracts leap, 
 
 Blowing their trumpets brave.
 
 120 BEN CRUACllAN 
 
 4 
 And yet beneath these splintered pinnacles, 
 
 Soaring in strength and majesty, 
 Down that broad bosom what bright greenness dwells : 
 The like on Scotland's Bens or English Fells 
 
 No otherwhere you see. 
 
 5 
 O ! I could lie and gaze — forever gaze — 
 
 While, in the movement and the sway 
 Of sun and shadow o'er these broad green braes, 
 Hour after hour the bright autumnal days 
 
 Are dreaming themselves away ! 
 
 And thou dost seem a being self-enwrapt 
 In thine own thought, great Cruachan ! 
 Whether in storm enveloped and storm-capt, 
 Or in pure light from base to summit lapt. 
 Taking no note of man. 
 
 7 
 
 Yet sure some buried histories thou hast 
 
 Of Scotland's old heroic men ; 
 Have not their stalwart strides along thee past, 
 Have not thy corries to their bugle blast 
 
 Startled, O Cruachan Ben ?
 
 BEN CRUACHAN 121 
 
 8 
 
 O for some ancient bard this clay to come, 
 
 Some grey Glenorchy chronicler, 
 And name each rock, pass, mountain track; and some 
 Of the mute histories here lying dumb 
 
 From long oblivion stir. 
 
 9 
 
 How when the wild kerne 1 came from Erin, borne 
 
 At Edward's best, the land to win, 
 Wight Wallace left his Stirling rock at morn. 
 And ere night fell, at yonder pass of Lorn 
 
 Had shut the caitiff in. 
 
 10 
 There yawns the gap on Benavourie's slope 
 
 Through which Sir Neil, with morning light 
 Appearing, closed the flying chief from hope. 
 And by yon track that grooves the mountain-slope — 
 
 Still called the path of flight — 
 
 1 1 
 Down that dark pass through which the river raves 
 
 Drave him in rout and all his men : — 
 Beyond the stream, in Craiganuni's caves 
 They sought a shelter, and they found their graves 
 
 Under the o'ershadowing Ben. 
 
 ^ See Note at end.
 
 122 BEN CRUACHAN 
 
 12 
 
 Anon he'd tell how Bruce in war array, 
 
 Secure of Scotland and her Crown, 
 Marched to this same pass, thirsting to repay 
 The despite Lorn had done him on the day 
 
 When fortune held him down ; 
 
 13 
 And how Lorn met him in yon narrow halse,^ 
 
 And barred the way with targe and spear, 
 Till gude Sir James, rounding the Corrieglass,^ 
 From yonder crag came thundering down the pass. 
 
 And smote him, flank and rear. 
 
 Ah me ! as through the gorge the battle boiled, 
 
 What wild shrieks there went up to heaven 
 As forward Bruce through rocks and brushwood toiled, 
 And backward Lorn with all his host recoiled 
 To death and ruin driven. 
 
 About thee many a slogan more hath knelled ! 
 
 Thou sawest how many a bloody crime 
 When up thy corries Campbell bloodhounds yelled. 
 Hunting Clan Alpine from the glens they held 
 
 From immemorial time. 
 
 ^ Halse, throat of a glen. " Corrieglass, grey hollow. 
 
 I
 
 BEN CRUACHAN 123 
 
 16 
 
 All these into thy silent self thou hast 
 
 Absorbed, and gentler things than these ; 
 The loving looks Poets have on thee cast, — 
 Wordsviforth and Walter Scott, what time they past 
 With their high melodies. 
 
 17 
 And year by year have come hearts old and young, 
 
 Native and stranger too, to shed on thee 
 Affection not less deep, albeit unsung. 
 Till with an air thou seemest overhung 
 
 Of mute humanity. 
 
 18 
 
 There till the human story shall fulfil 
 
 Itself, O Cruachan, thou shalt stay. 
 — Then shall it be by strong convulsive thrill 
 That thou shalt pass, or slow mutations still 
 
 Preluding that blest day 
 
 To which the toiling ages labour on 
 
 When, all the contradiction healed. 
 All the long travail of the creature done. 
 He, looked-for long, shall come, the Righteous One 
 
 To heart and eye revealed ? 
 
 Written August 1869.
 
 124 
 
 ON VISITING DRUIM-A LIATII 
 
 The Birthplace of Duncan Ban Macintyre ^ 
 
 The homes long are gone, but enchantment still 
 lingers 
 These green knolls around, where thy young life 
 began, 
 Sweetest and last of the old Celtic singers, 
 Bard of the Monadh-dhu, blithe Donach Ban ! 
 
 Never 'mid scenes of earth fairer or grander 
 
 Poet first lifted his eyelids on light. 
 Free through these glens, o'er these mountains to 
 wander. 
 
 And make them his own by the true minstrel right. 
 
 Around thee the meeting and green interlacing 
 Of clear-flowing waters and far-winding glens. 
 
 Lovely inlaid in the mighty embracing 
 
 Of sombre pine forests and storm-riven Bens : 
 
 ^ See Note at end.
 
 ON VISITING DRUIM-A LIATH 125 
 
 Behind thee, these crowding Peaks, region of mystery, 
 Fed thy young spirit with broodings sublime ; 
 
 Grey cairn and green hillock, each breathing some 
 history 
 Of the weird under-world, or the wild battle-time. 
 
 Thine were Ben-Starrav, Stop-gyre, Meal-na-ruadh, 
 Mantled in storm-gloom, or bathed in sunshine ; 
 
 Streams from Cor-oran, Glashgower, and Glen-fuadh 
 Made music for thee, where their waters combine. 
 
 But over all others, thy darling Ben Doran 
 Held thee entranced with his beautiful form. 
 
 With looks ever-changing thy young fancy storing, 
 Gladness of sunshine, and terror of storm, — 
 
 Opened to thee his most secret recesses. 
 
 Taught thee the lore of the red-deer and roe. 
 
 Showed thee them feed on the green mountain cresses. 
 Drink the cold wells above lone Doir^-chro. 
 
 There thine eye watched them go up the hill-passes. 
 At sunrise rejoicing, a proud jaunty throng ; 
 
 Learnt the herbs that they love, the small flow'rs 
 and hill grasses. 
 To make these for ever bloom green in thy song.
 
 126 ON VISITING DRUIM-A LIATII 
 
 Yet, child of the wilderness ! nursling of nature ! 
 
 Would the hills e'er have taught thee the true 
 minstrel art, 
 Had not a visage, more lovely of feature. 
 
 The fountain unsealed of thy tenderer heart ? 
 
 The maiden that dwelt by the side of Maam-haarie, 
 Seen from thy home-door — a vision of joy — 
 
 Morning and even, the young fair-haired Mary 
 Moving about at her household employ. 
 
 High on Bendoa, and stately Benchallader, 
 Leaving the dun deer in safety to hide, 
 
 Fondly thy doating eye dwelt on her, followed her. 
 Tenderly wooed her, and won her thy bride. 
 
 O I well for the maiden who found such a lover! 
 
 And well for the Poet ; to whom Mary gave 
 Her fulness of heart, until, life's journey over. 
 
 She lay down beside him to rest in the grave. 
 
 From the bards of to-day, and their sad songs that 
 darken 
 The sunshine with doubt, wring the bosom with 
 pain, 
 How gladly we fly to the shealings, and hearken 
 The clear mountain gladness that sounds through 
 thy strain 1
 
 ON VISITING DRUIM-A LIATH 127 
 
 In the uplands with thee is no doubt or misgiving, 
 But strength, joy, and freedom Atlantic winds blow, 
 
 And kind thoughts are there, and the pure simple 
 living 
 Of the warm-hearted Gael in the glens long ago. 
 
 The muse of old Maro hath pathos and splendour. 
 The long lines of Homer in majesty roll ; 
 
 But to me Donach Ban breathes a feeling more tender. 
 More akin to the child-heart that sleeps in my soul. 
 
 Written September 1869.
 
 128 
 
 SCHIHALLION 
 
 I WATCHED the sun fall down with prone descent 
 Sheer on Schihallion's spear-like pinnacle, 
 Which, as he touched it, cleaved his solid orb 
 As a great warrior's spear might split the rim 
 Of a broad foeman's shield ; A moment more, 
 The liquid fire, ere to the centre cleft, 
 Had re-assumed his own supremacy. 
 And fused the granite peak into the mass 
 Of his own molten glory. Anon he rolled 
 Off from the spear-like peak majestically, 
 Along the sharp-edged shoulder north away, 
 Rolling, and sinking slow till he became 
 A bright belt, then an eye of light, then dipped 
 Down to the under-world, and all was gone. 
 Then all the mountain's eastern precipice, 
 Though dark in purple shadow, loomed out large ; 
 As proud to have absorbed one sunset more. 
 And conscious of its own stability. 
 A solemn pause it was, an awful thrill
 
 SCHIHALLION 129 
 
 Of silence audible, as though the tide 
 Of time were meeting with eternity : — 
 Such is the awful hush, the prayer-like pause, 
 When some good life benign has passed in peace 
 From earth, and mourners feel that all is well. 
 
 Written August 6, 1870. 
 
 K
 
 «30 
 
 TORRIDON GLEN^ 
 
 Oh marvellous Glen of Torridon, 
 With thy flanks of granite wall, 
 And noon-silence more than midnight grim 
 To overawe and appal ! 
 
 Many a year I have wandered 
 A thousand corries and glens, 
 But never a one so awesome as thou, 
 'Mid thy grimness and terror of Bens. 
 
 Benyea, magnificent Alp, 
 Blanched bare, and bald, and white, 
 His forehead, like old sea eagle's scalp. 
 Seen athwart the sunset light ! 
 
 ■o' 
 
 Liaguch, rising sheer 
 From river-bed up to the sky, 
 Grey courses of masonr)', tier on tier. 
 And pinnacles splintered on high ! 
 
 * See Note at end.
 
 TORRIDON GLEN 131 
 
 Splintered, contorted, and riven 
 , As though, from the topmost crown 
 Some giant plougher his share had driven 
 In a hundred furrows sheer down. 
 
 On the further flank of the glen, 
 Sweeping in wonderous line, 
 Scourdhu, Benlia, Bendamh 
 Their weirdly forms combine. 
 
 At every turn new grouped. 
 Fantastic features and forms, 
 Cataract-cloven and corrie-scooped ; 
 Homes of the thunder storms. 
 
 Mysterious Glen Torridon, 
 What marvels, night and day 
 Light, mist, and cloud will be working here 
 When we are far away ! 
 
 When the young dawn makes its home 
 On Liaguch's wrinkled brow. 
 Or the moonlight moves o'er yon cataract's foam. 
 What painter can work as thou ? 
 
 Through these Peaks when the thunder is rolled, 
 It were worth all the poems of men
 
 ;2 TORRIDON GLEN 
 
 To hear the discourse these Brethren hold 
 As they shout over Torridon Glen, 
 
 When the great Atlantic winds 
 Come blowing with rack and rain, 
 From its caves and crannies the glen unbinds 
 The peal of how grand a refrain ! 
 
 And then, when the storms are o'er, 
 The relapse to the solemn sleep — 
 The mountain sabbath that ever more 
 A sanctuary here doth keep ! 
 
 With silence, sound, light and mist, 
 Labouring or lying still, 
 Painter or Poet, or whate'er thou list, 
 What, compared with thine, their skill 
 
 To lift or o'erawe the heart ? 
 — The power that dwells in thee. 
 Simple, sublime, and strong as thou art, 
 Is of Eternity. 
 
 The world weak with sin hath grown. 
 The nations are smit with decay ; 
 The order of things Earth long hath known 
 Must pass with a crash away.
 
 TORRIDON GLEN I33 
 
 Only two things shall stand 
 Healthful and undecayed — 
 The will of God, and this mountain land, 
 Which He, not man, hath made. 
 
 Written July 28, 29, 1871.
 
 134 
 
 LOCH TORRIDON^ 
 I 
 
 Child of the far-off ocean flood ! 
 
 What wayward mood hath made thee fain 
 
 To leave thy wide Atlantic main 
 
 For this hill-girdled solitude ? 
 
 To wind away through kyles and creeks, 
 
 Past island, cliff, and promontory, 
 
 And lose thyself 'mid grisly peaks 
 
 And precipices scarred and hoary ? 
 
 Can it be thou weariest 
 
 Of ocean's turbulence and unrest, 
 
 Of driving wind and weltering foam. 
 
 And, longing for some peaceful home. 
 
 Dost hither come in hope to reap 
 
 Thy portion of the mountain sleep, 
 
 That underneath all changes broods 
 
 In these eternal solitudes ? 
 
 And, far away from plash and roar 
 
 Of breaking billows, evermore 
 
 ^ See Note at end.
 
 LOCH TORRIDON I35 
 
 Inlapt in hills to lie and dream 
 Lulled by the sound of inland stream, 
 And listening the far soothing moan 
 Of torrents down the bare crags thrown. 
 
 II 
 
 But thou hast all unweeting come 
 Where human joy hath long been dumb. 
 A land by some strange woe o'ertaken, 
 Of its own people nigh forsaken, 
 Where those who linger still retain 
 Dearth only, penury, and pain, 
 And wear that uncomplaining [mood] 
 Which the too long continued stress 
 Of sore privation hath subdued, 
 Down to a hopeless passiveness. 
 
 Ill 
 
 And this wan sombre afternoon. 
 That waits the mild rain coming soon, 
 — A look lies on the loch dead still 
 As though it felt for human ill, 
 E'en like a face, so deeply fraught 
 With brooding and pathetic thought 
 O'er all of human wrong and woe. 
 That tears might any hour o'erflow.
 
 136 LOCH TORRinON 
 
 And yet such self-control doth keep — 
 Though on the verge, it will not weep. 
 
 iv 
 
 But noon is up — bright morn benign — 
 From sea to summit glad sunshine 
 This wilderness austere hath thrilled 
 With grand and wonderous joy — and filled 
 These mountain faces scarred and riven 
 With the soft white apparel of heaven. 
 These peaks, the giant brotherhood, 
 That round the kinloch ^ crowding brood, 
 Last night so grey and grim, soar white 
 And dazzling through the infinite 
 Blue dome : — what clouds there come and go 
 Are few and fleecy white as snow. 
 O joy in such an hour to be 
 Afloat upon this inland sea 
 With shore, hills, sky, beneath us seen 
 To float along two heavens between ! 
 Joy too hath reached the hungry shore : 
 There now, their small black huts before. 
 Old bodies sit and sun themselves. 
 Poor widows pale, with looks refined. 
 Who through dark winter months have pined 
 In hunger, each with wasted form 
 ^ Kinloch, lake-head.
 
 LOCH TORRIDON 137 
 
 Take, while they may, the sunshine warm. 
 And one or two on rocky shelves 
 Creep out, to wrench the mussels thence 
 That to their sea-washed moorings hold, 
 Not with a clinging more intense 
 Than they to these bare dwellings old. 
 
 V 
 
 O region ! full of power and change 
 Of aspect — boundless in thy range 
 Of gloom and glory, like the soul 
 Of poet, who takes in the whole, 
 And renders back what earth hath given 
 Illumined with the hues of heaven. 
 Thou hast no mean or common moods ! 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 And we, who feelingly have been 
 Partakers of this wondrous scene. 
 Been rapt in its sublime delight — 
 Touched with its pathos infinite — 
 How oft from heartless worldly din 
 In thought we'll wander back, and win 
 Refreshment, strength, and calm of tone 
 From the great vision we have known ! 
 On winter nights will wonder how 
 It fares up yonder — whether now.
 
 I3S LOCH TORKIDON 
 
 'Mid rain and cloud-drift, these great peaks 
 Are listening to the night wind's shrieks, 
 Or, all alone, the blue heaven share 
 With bright Arcturus or the Bear. 
 
 Written July 1871.
 
 139 
 
 PROGNOSTIC 
 
 When early morning o'er the mountains high 
 Had spread a garment of too-brilliant sky, 
 I've seen mists come from out you knew not where, 
 From unseen caverns or the cloudless air ; 
 First faintly fleck the flanks, then upward spread 
 White sheeted swathes around the mountain head : 
 — Then all the heavens turned to sullen grey. 
 Came down in floods of rain, and drowned the day. 
 
 Written Autumn 1874.
 
 140 
 
 THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Up the long corrie, through the screetan ^ rents, 
 
 Past the last cloud-berry and stone-crop flower, 
 With no companion save the elements, 
 
 This peak of crumbled rock my lone watch- 
 tower, 
 Bare ridges all around me, weather-bleached, 
 
 Of hoary moss and lichen-crusted stone. 
 Beyond all sounds of gladness or distress, 
 
 All trace of human feeling — only reached 
 From far below by the everlasting moan 
 
 The corrie-burns send up, I gaze alone 
 O'er the wide Ossianic wilderness. 
 
 There o'er the abyss by long Loch Ericht cloven, 
 Ben-Aulder, huge, broad-breasted, — the heavens 
 bowed 
 To meet him — hides great shoulders in dark- 
 woven 
 And solemn tabernacle of moveless cloud. 
 And there pavilions 'neath that solid roof 
 His deer and eagles, dwelling all alone 
 
 ' Screetan, stony ravine on mountain-side.
 
 THE WILDERNESS 141 
 
 In corrie and cove, inviolately still ; 
 
 While with streaks breaking from those skirts 
 of woof 
 His lower flanks he dapples, half-way down, 
 
 Strange visionary dreamings of his own. 
 That come and go at his mysterious will. 
 
 Whence borne we know not, for all heaven is grey. 
 
 And passing hence to go we know not where. 
 Weary world-wanderers that have lost their way 
 
 On that illimitable moor and bare, 
 Outcasts disowned by the beclouded sun, 
 
 O'er deer-grass wastes, faint-gleaming, on they 
 stray. 
 Past that one sunless loch so weird and wan. 
 
 To be absorbed in yonder desert dun 
 That heaves and rolls endlessly north away 
 
 By Corryarrick and the springs of Spey, 
 The grand old country of the Chattan clan. 
 
 Or southward turn — down yonder long defile 
 There the great moor of Rannoch darkly looms 
 
 From out its clouds and shadows, mile on mile 
 Wandering away to ever-deepening glooms 
 
 That alway girdle those storm-cradling walls, 
 Corriechabah and his huge brethren grim.
 
 142 Till-: WILDERNESS 
 
 While here and there the waste moor shoots some 
 eye 
 Of ghostly tarn,i and there Loch Loydon 
 crawls, — 
 A wounded dragon — now in vapours dim 
 
 Enwrapt, and now such lights break over him, 
 His waters seem a blink of open sky. 
 
 That life of clouds and sungleams that doth wage 
 
 Its dusky war athwart this wilderness, 
 Mid human change unchanging, age on age, 
 
 What poet hath availed to quite express ? 
 Not Donach Bin,- for all his mountain lore. 
 
 Not Walter Scott, though king of minstrel 
 might, 
 Not even Wordsworth's inspiration strong ; 
 
 But he, the voice of Cona, blind and hoar, 
 Whose youth beheld these movements, and when 
 night, 
 
 Deep night closed on him, by his inward sight 
 Renewed and clothed them in immortal song. 
 
 Ossian is here, and a Being more than he, 
 Even that upholding Spirit, who contains 
 
 ^ Tarn, i.e. the small loch on the moor. 
 ^ Donach Ban, Duncan Mclntyre, "the Robert Burns of 
 the Highlands." — J. C. S. — See Note at end.
 
 THE WILDERNESS 143 
 
 Within Himself all "kings of melody," 
 
 All they have sung in their divinest strains ; 
 Nor only these, but all of human souls 
 
 That are, or have been, or shall yet be here, 
 With all they've known, and all the vast unknown 
 
 Beyond their thought, animates and controls. 
 To all that moving world close eye and ear ! 
 
 For in this awful solitude very near 
 He Cometh to the soul, and He alone. 
 
 Written 1874.
 
 "44 
 
 THE HIGHLAND RIVER 
 
 Ha ! there he comes, the headlong Highland River ! 
 Shout of a king is in his current strong, 
 Exulting strength that shall endure for ever, 
 As lashing down his rocks he leaps along. 
 
 O'er the great boulders, foaming, leaping, bounding 
 Thy tawny waters from their loch set free ! 
 Thou callest on the sombre hills surrounding. 
 To come and join in thine exulting glee, 
 
 3 
 
 Flooding the fiats, the rock-barred gorges cleaving, 
 O'er falls a plunging foaming cataract. 
 From every brae a tribute-burn receiving. 
 Brightening with foam the dusky moorland tract.
 
 THE HIGHLAND RIVER I45 
 
 4 
 Throb on ! thou heart of this wide wilderness, 
 The sombre silence with thy gladness fill ! 
 We pass, but Thou remainest, — none the less, 
 Will throb thy pulses wild, when ours are still. 
 
 Written September 1874.
 
 .146 
 
 LOST ON SCHIHALLION 
 
 Shepherd Oh wherefore cam ye here, Ailie? 
 What has brocht you here ? 
 Late and lane ^ on this bleak muir and eerie, 
 A wild place this to be 
 For a body frail as ye, 
 Wi' the nicht and yon storm-clouds sae 
 near ye. 
 
 AlLlE Oh dinna drive me back, 
 
 I canna leave my track. 
 Though nicht and the tempest should close 
 o'er me. 
 The warld I've left behind, 
 And there's nocht I care to find 
 Save Schihallion and high heaven that are 
 afore me. 
 
 Shepherd Oh speak nae word o' driving, 
 But wherefore art thou striving 
 For the thing that canna be, puir Ailie ? 
 
 ' Lane, lone.
 
 LOST ON SCHIHALLION I47 
 
 Ye had better far return, 
 Where the peat-fires bienly ^ burn, 
 And your friends wait ye down at BohaHe. 
 
 AlLlE The warld below is cauld and bare, 
 
 Up yonder's the place for prayer ; 
 There the vision on my soul will break 
 clearer. 
 My friends will little miss me, 
 And there's only One can bless me, 
 To Him on the hill-top I'll be nearer. 
 
 Shepherd Schihallion's sides sae sclid - and steep. 
 And his snow-drifts heap on heap, 
 What mortal would dream the nicht ^ o' 
 scaling ? 
 Gin * the heart pray below. 
 From nae mountain-top will go 
 Your prayer to heaven with cry more 
 prevailing. 
 
 AlLlE Weak am I and frail, I ken, 
 
 But there's might that's not of men 
 To bear me up — sae na mair entreat me ; 
 
 ^ Bienly, cheerfully. - Sclid, slippery. 
 
 ^ The nicht, to-night. •* Gin, if.
 
 148 LOST ON SCIIIIIALLION 
 
 Be the snow-drifts ne'er sac deep, 
 
 I have got a tiyst to keep 
 
 Wi' the angels llial up yonder wait to mee 
 
 me. 
 
 ♦ * * * * 1 
 
 The Shepherd home is gone, 
 
 And she went on alone ; 
 Night cam, but she cam not to Bohalie ; 
 
 They socht her west and east 
 
 Neist day, and then the neist 
 On Schihallion's head they found pair Ailie. 
 
 Stiff with ice her limbs and hair. 
 And her hands fast closed in prayer, 
 And her white face to heaven meekly 
 turning ; 
 Down they bore her to her grave. 
 And they knew her soul was safe 
 In the home for which sac lang she had 
 been yearning. 
 
 Written 1874. — A few years ago the incident here alluded to 
 actually occurred, in all its details, in the case of a poor High- 
 land woman, weak in health and of failing mind. 
 
 ' iSo asterisked when first published.
 
 149 
 
 WILD FLOWERS IN JUNE 
 I 
 
 The showers are over, the skiffing ^ showers, 
 
 Come let us rise and go 
 Where the happy niountain flowers, 
 Children of the young June hours. 
 
 In their sweet haunts blow. 
 Where nor plough nor spade hath clomb, 
 
 On the native upland leas, 
 Between the heather and the broom 
 They have made their chosen home. 
 
 Single or in families. 
 
 Wet with rain, gleam bell and cup, 
 
 Now the westering sunset lays. 
 From the valley passing up, 
 
 Splendour on these grassy braes. 
 Music too, and of the best. 
 
 All about them now is ringing. 
 For the laverock ^ from her nest 
 
 For even-song is heavenward springing, 
 
 1 Skiffl?!g, flying, light. ^ Laverock, lark.
 
 I50 WILD r LOWERS l.\ JUNE 
 
 And raining melody in showers 
 Down upon the lowly flowers. 
 
 And at silent intervals, 
 While the sunset's round them glistening, 
 Cometh to their eager listening 
 
 Sound of latest cuckoo-calls 
 
 And of far-off waterfalls. 
 
 Lo ! the lavish hand of June, 
 
 Far and near, the pasture soil, 
 Brae and hillock, hath bestrewn 
 
 With a blaze of Bird-trefoil. 
 And, whene'er you miss its shining, 
 
 See the white and simple sheen 
 Of the silvery Gallium lining 
 
 All the interspace between : 
 High and low, the alternate gleam 
 Of their colours is supreme. 
 
 Stoop and see a lowlier kind, 
 
 Creeping Milk-wort, pink, white, blue, 
 
 With the hill-bent intertwined, 
 
 Shy, yet hardy, peeping through ; 
 
 While the Eye-bright twinkles nigh, 
 
 With its modest happy eye, 
 
 Like one set to bear a gay 
 
 Gladsome spirit, come what maj*.
 
 WILD FLOWERS IN JUNE 151 
 
 Here and there on grassy mound 
 
 Thyme and Rock-rose interfuse 
 On the green knolls they have crowned 
 
 Tender gold with purple hues : 
 Thyme, within whose odorous beds 
 
 Murmur still late-lingering bees ; 
 Rock-roses, that droop their heads. 
 Hastening one by one to fold 
 Their so delicate discs of gold, 
 
 Ere the sunlight leave the leas. 
 
 Coming from you know not where, 
 
 What rich fragrance round us shed ! 
 Suddenly, all unaware, 
 
 Lo ! mid Orchis beds we tread. 
 Than the odours these bequeath, 
 
 Wildlings of the dry hillside. 
 Richer none the gardens breathe 
 
 From their pampered flowers of pride. 
 While their scentless sisters white. 
 Near them, and those others dight 
 With a deeper purple wonder, 
 Down within their moist marsh yonder, 
 Why to them is disallowed 
 That W'hich maketh these so proud ? 
 
 Where the burn the moor is leaving, 
 Ere it leaps the upper linn.
 
 152 WIU) F LOWERS 1\ JUNE 
 
 To descend the dark dell cleaving, 
 
 See the light comes slanting in ; 
 On the heath above the fall, 
 
 There along their favourite haunt, 
 Yellow Lucken-gowans ^ tall, 
 
 Nothing loth, their splendours flaunt. 
 All day long in light winds swaying, 
 Bright eyes they have been displaying ; 
 Now their globes of gold are furled. 
 Bidding good-night to the world. 
 
 Pass we now across the stream, 
 
 By the margin of the wood 
 Hidden lies the tenderer gleam 
 
 Of a purer sisterhood. 
 Wary go — their heathy cover 
 You may pass, nor once discover, 
 Underneath, the pure white sheen 
 Of the starry Winter-green. 
 Happy flowerets ! stoop and find them. 
 
 They will thrill you with their smile ; 
 Go your way, and nothing mind them, 
 
 They smile on, and bear no guile. 
 
 Now latest lights from topmost heights, 
 One by one are fleetly going ; 
 
 ' Lucken-gawan , Globe-flower, one of the Ranunculaceae.
 
 WILD FLOWERS IN JUNE 153 
 
 We descend, and homeward wend 
 
 Where white and red wild-roses blowing, 
 
 And foxglove bells light the dells ; — 
 
 But we will pass and leave them growing. 
 
 II 
 
 WINTER-GREEN 
 {TRIENTALIS EUROP^A) 
 
 Darling Flowers ! at last I've found you, 
 For so many months unseen, 
 
 Through blae-berries clustered round you, 
 Twinkling white with starry sheen ; 
 
 Flowers to which no equals be 
 
 For sweet grace and purity. 
 
 As I gaze, O floweret slender ! 
 
 Whatsoever things there be. 
 Spiritual, pure, and tender, 
 
 Rise to thought at sight of thee. 
 Dweller on this dusky moor, 
 Meek and humble, bright and pure. 
 
 Bright as folding star at even, 
 Pure as lamb on vernal lea.
 
 154 WILD FLOWKUS IN J INK 
 
 Seeming less of earth than heaven, 
 
 How the heart leaps forth to thee ! 
 Springing from this heathy sod, 
 Like a thing new-come from God. 
 
 With thy pure while petals seven, 
 And thy graceful leaflets whorled 
 
 Round thy slender stem, brief-living 
 Visitant of this rough world. 
 
 Thou dost hint at, and foreshow, 
 
 What we long for, cannot know. 
 
 Though thy soul-like smiles seem foreign 
 To our sorrow-clouded clime, 
 
 Yet rough wood, and moorland barren, 
 Keep thee thy appointed time. 
 
 Through all weather, brave to bear 
 
 Buffets of our northern air. 
 
 Brave to bear, and do thy duty 
 Full of cheer ; and then depart. 
 
 Image of a saint-like beauty 
 
 Leaving with the pure in heart ; 
 
 All lone places making dear, 
 
 Where thy sweet looks re-appear.
 
 WILD FLOWERS IN JUNE 155 
 
 Though ye dwell in home secluded, 
 
 Yours is no unsocial mood, 
 But the beauty unobtruded 
 
 Of a radiant sisterhood, 
 With your brightness born to bless 
 Many a bare bleak wilderness. 
 
 But howe'er we read your feeling, 
 
 From the world and all its din 
 Well I know 'tis pleasant stealing 
 
 O'er the desert far to win 
 Such delight as thrills me through, 
 Each summer, at first sight of you. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Here far removed from garden art, 
 
 Fresh-breaking from the mountain sod, 
 
 Your gentle faces touch the heart. 
 
 Like words that come direct from God. 
 
 Ye thrill as with a touch so true 
 And tender, O ye wildling flowers ! 
 
 We cannot doubt, Who fashioned you. 
 
 The Same hath made these hearts of ours.
 
 156 WILD FL0\V1:KS in JUNE 
 
 Yes, eyes of beauty bright are ye, 
 On luiman life all soiled and dim 
 
 Forth-looking from that central sea 
 Of beauty, that abides with Him. 
 
 Written 1874.
 
 157 
 
 ALT CUCHIN DOUN 
 
 Still let me dive the glens among, 
 With birks and rowans ^ overhung ; 
 And wandering up the channel bed 
 By the burn's wayward windings led, 
 Exploring every cove, and cool 
 Recess, each nook, and clear brown pool 
 With its pure mirror, clear to show 
 The leaves above, the stones below ; 
 To note each fair fern's various grace, 
 Each peeping flower's hiding place, 
 Each lichen-crusted stone and rock, 
 With dyes so deftly laid, — they mock 
 All textures of most delicate bloom 
 E'er wrought on Oriental loom. 
 
 With such sweet musings let me stray, 
 Till some steep cataract bars the way. 
 Then close my eyes, and let the croon 
 Of falling waters all attune 
 My thoughts, and lead to quiet moods 
 Where no rude worldly thought intrudes, 
 
 ^ Birk, birch ; roivan, mountain-ash.
 
 15S ALT CUCHIN UOUN 
 
 And haply wake within some song 
 That may the calm sweet hour prolong, 
 Whate'er it have of pure and fine 
 To gladden other hearts, as mine. 
 
 Written September 12, 1875.
 
 159 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S HOUSE, 
 
 LOCH ERICHT 
 
 I 
 
 A BOWSHOT from the loch aloof 
 Beside a burn that sings its tune 
 All day long to the Shepherd's roof, 
 Blue smiling through the quiet noon. 
 Behind it, the long corrie cleaves 
 A bosom in the Bens, and leaves 
 These to enfold their wide embrace 
 Of arms round this lone dwelling-place. 
 
 Home lonelier, more from kirk and school 
 
 Removed is not on Highland ground ; 
 
 Across the Loch it looketh full 
 
 Into Benaulder's coves profound. 
 
 And evermore before his broad 
 
 And solemn presence overawed. 
 
 Receives a too depressing sense 
 
 Of Nature's power, man's impotence.
 
 i6o Till-; siii.riii.KiJ's iiuusE, LOCH ekicht 
 
 3 
 Across the Ijurn its peat-moss lies, 
 This side, some plats for meadow hay ; 
 Unflagging there the Shepherd plies 
 His labour all this autumn day, — 
 He and his dark Lochaber wife, 
 To store the hay and fuel rife, 
 This fleeting passing autumn prime 
 'Gainst snowdrift in this Alpine clime. 
 
 4 
 
 Hard by, bareheaded, shout and leap 
 Their lads and lasses at their play ; 
 The clamorous colHes yelp to keep 
 The kye from the kail-yard ^ at bay. 
 But all these cries, this household din. 
 Can scarce a faintest echo win 
 From this vast hush, wherein they seem 
 No more than sounds far heard in dream. 
 
 5 
 O were this stillness lodged within 
 The countless hearts in cities pent. 
 To mitigate the feverish din 
 With this soul-soothing element ; 
 
 ' Kail-yard, cabbage-garden.
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S HOUSE, LOCH ERICHT i6i 
 
 The vext soul's tumult to allay 
 By thought and quiet having way, 
 And soothe their pulses' anxious throes 
 With cool of this profound repose ! 
 
 Yet what is all earth's cities' roar, 
 The agitation loud and fierce, 
 That vex her countless hearts, before 
 The still all-girdling universe ? 
 No more than is the little noise 
 This household at each day's employs 
 Makes in the presence of the vast 
 Absorbing silence round them cast. 
 
 Written September 1875. 
 
 M
 
 l62 
 
 AUTUMN IX Tin- HIGHLANDS 
 
 OCTOBER! 
 (AFTER KEATS) 
 
 I 
 
 October misty bright, the touch is thine 
 That the full year to consummation brings, 
 When noonday suns and nightly frosts combine 
 To make a glory that outrivals spring's ; 
 The mountain bases swathed in russet fern, 
 Their middle girths with deer-grass golden-pale, 
 And the high summits touched with earliest snows 
 From summer dreamings lift to thoughts more stern ; 
 Then doth the harvest-moon in beauty sail 
 O'er the far peaks and the mist-steaming vale, 
 While silver-sheened our household river flows. 
 
 II 
 
 Who hath not seen thee clambering up the crag. 
 On sunny days in many-hued attire, 
 Making wild-cherry leaves thy scarlet flag, 
 
 ! See Note at end.
 
 AUTUMN IN THE HIGHLANDS 163 
 
 And kindling rowan boughs to crimson fire ? 
 Sometimes on dizzy rock-ledge thou art seen, 
 Even as an angel from high heaven new-lit, 
 Quivering aloft in aspen's pallid gold ; 
 Or far up mountains queen-like thou dost sit, 
 Cushioned on mosses orange, purple, green. 
 Or down their bases homeward thou dost lean, 
 Loaded with withered ferns, a housewife old. 
 
 Ill 
 
 What though the summer mountain fruits are gone. 
 
 Though of black crowberries grouse have eat their fill ? 
 
 A few belated cloudberries linger on 
 
 High on the moist hill-breast where mists distil ; 
 
 And now the prickly juniper displays 
 
 On dry warm banks his pungent fruitage blue, 
 
 Deep in pine-forests wortleberries show 
 
 Their box-like leaves and fruit of bright red hue, 
 
 And old fail-dykes ^ along the upland braes, 
 
 Fringed with blaeberry leaves in scarlet blaze. 
 
 Add to October sunsets richer glow. 
 
 IV 
 
 And for thy songs, home-carting late-won peats, 
 Crofters low-humming down hill-tracks return, 
 
 ^ Fail-dykes, walls of turf and stone.
 
 104 AUTUMN IN TllK 111(,11LANDS 
 
 While here and there some lone ewe-mother bleats 
 
 Fitfully, for last summer's lamb forlorn ; 
 
 O'er heather brown no wild-bee murmurs float, 
 
 The pewits gone, shy curlews haste to leave 
 
 The high moors where they screamed the summer 
 
 loni,^ ; 
 From slaughtering guns the mountains win reprieve ; 
 But still far up on mossy haggs ^ remote 
 The plover sits and pipes her plaintive note. 
 And cackling grouse-cock whirs on pinions strong. 
 
 GARTH CASTLE - 
 
 Garth Castle, he hath borne the brunt 
 
 Of twice three hundred years ; 
 Yet dauntless still his time-rent front 
 
 A ruddy banner rears. 
 
 Bethinks he of the blood-red flag. 
 
 Was waving there of old. 
 When Badenoch's Wolf that island crag 
 
 Chose for his mountain hold ? 
 
 On either side a torrent's roar — 
 
 A jagged dark ravine — 
 A headlong precipice before, 
 
 Behind, yon mountain screen, 
 
 ' ^aggs< see p. 29. - See Note at end.
 
 AUTUMN IN THE HIGHLANDS 165 
 
 Here, warder-like, the gorge he keeps, 
 
 Firm foot and aspect grim ; 
 SchihalHon from his mountain steeps 
 
 Looks calmly down on him. 
 
 O well he chose this dark defile, 
 
 Who harried far and near. 
 Fire-wasted Elgin's holy pile, 
 
 And filled these glens with fear. 
 
 And then — his work of ravage sped — 
 
 To this stern hold withdrew. 
 And Scotland's lion, bloody-red. 
 
 From its proud forehead threw. 
 
 Those robber chiefs are in their graves, 
 
 And from this ruined brow 
 A gentler power the red flag waves, 
 
 Not man, but Nature now — 
 
 Calm Nature, who these autumn eves 
 
 Her silent finger lays. 
 And kindles those wild-cherry leaves 
 
 To bright purpureal blaze. 
 
 Deft worker ! who like her can rich 
 
 And rare embroidery weave. 
 To hide the rents of ruin which 
 
 Time's unseen wedges cleave ?
 
 i66 AUTUMX IN THK IIICIILAXDS 
 
 O well for thee ! that tliou canst find, 
 
 After thy stormy day, 
 A nurse so beautiful and kind 
 
 To gladden thy decay. 
 
 And give to passing hearts to feel 
 How under wrong and ruin 
 
 A deep power lies, can gently heal 
 With beautiful renewing. 
 
 Written October 1876.
 
 1 67 
 
 CLATTO ^ 
 
 Days on days, the East wind blowing 
 Wind and sleet and blinding rain, 
 Dark the heavens and darker growing, 
 Blent in one, sea, hill, and plain. 
 
 Came a lull, and we ascended 
 
 A green hill at close of day, 
 
 Whence the heavens' black curtain rended 
 
 Showed Schihallion far away 
 
 3 
 Standing out supreme and lonely 
 O'er the vaporous mirky dim. 
 With one gleam of sunset only 
 Slanting down the flanks of him. 
 
 4 
 Brief the vision : — soon we wended 
 Down to darkness as before ; 
 
 1 In Fife.
 
 '68 CLATTO 
 
 And the tempest blowing blended 
 Sky, and sea, and earth, once more. 
 
 5 
 Drowning haugh ^ and flooding river, 
 Drenching dark, the storm wind blew 
 Weary days on days : — will ever 
 
 Sun and star again shine through ? 
 
 6 
 
 Yes : — what comfort 'tis to ponder, 
 Though these vapours dense and chill 
 Press us down — Schihallion yonder, 
 In his strength is soaring still. 
 
 7 
 As in happy summers olden 
 There he stands : — we yet shall see 
 Spear-like cleave the sunset golden 
 His peaked forehead,- calm and free. 
 
 8 
 So in many a doubtful season. 
 When the soul's best vision fades, 
 And no reach of heart or reason 
 Can pierce through the dull damp shades, 
 
 1 Haugh, water-meadow. 
 - His peaked forehead, see Scki/ialHon, p. 128.
 
 CLATTO J 69 
 
 9 
 Strength there is and consolation 
 Whatsoe'er obstructions hide ; 
 Knowing in their changeless station 
 Heaven's eternal truths abide. 
 
 10 
 
 Meek hearts, — who with faith unbating 
 Through the soul's dark days endure, — 
 Lights divine for you are waiting : 
 The great vision is secure I 
 
 Written April 21, 1877.
 
 170 
 
 AUCHMORE 
 
 O MOUNTAIN Stream ! so old, yet ever young ! 
 
 Thy voice so close beside this ancient home 
 
 Soothingly murmurs on, for ever on. 
 
 Like some old nurse beside a cradled child 
 
 Crooning a solemn lullaby ; for thou 
 
 Wast sounding here long ere this mansion rose, 
 
 And wilt be sounding on when it and all 
 
 That it inhabit have quite disappeared, 
 
 Into the invisible ! 
 
 Far up among 
 The open heathery braes thy springs are born. 
 And there thou blendest thy first prattle with 
 The crowing muir-cock and the plover's cry ; 
 Then, on thy journey down, these old pine woods 
 Receive and solemnize thy plunging roar, 
 Ere in the lake it is for ever still. 
 
 Unceasingly these waters come and go, 
 But thou, still voice ! for evermore the same 
 Abidest — sound that does not change or fail, 
 Eternity in time made audible. 
 And age by age, fond dwellers here have come,
 
 AUCHMORE 171 
 
 And loved this house, and Hstened to this stream 
 
 A little while, then gone their unknown way. 
 
 And we, who here some passing hours have been, 
 
 Falling asleep beneath the lulling sound, 
 
 Wakening at morn encompassed still within 
 
 The omnipresent murmur, ere we part, 
 
 A prayer would breathe for those young hearts,^ who 
 
 dwell 
 From day to day in hearing of this stream, 
 And call these mountains a brief while their own, 
 That more than all the noisy jars of time 
 This monotone so solemn and profound. 
 This voice so weighted with eternity. 
 May reach their ears not only, but their souls. 
 And bear the warning home, with which it comes 
 Charged from the mountains, of the Eternal One ; — 
 That they may live to further His great ends. 
 To whom our hearts are bare, with whom alone 
 We shall have then to do, when we have passed 
 Out of the hearing of all earthly sounds. 
 
 Written August 4, 1877. 
 
 1 TJiose young liearts : the allusion is to Lord and Lady 
 Breadalbane,
 
 172 
 
 DRUMUACHDARi 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM THE GAKLIC 
 
 O WAE on Loch Laggan ! 
 That bonnie spring day 
 Lured my lad and his herd 
 To the desert away : — 
 
 Then changed ere night fell 
 To a demon its form, 
 And hugged him to death 
 In the arms of the storm. 
 
 Drumuachdar's dark moor 
 I have wandered in pain ; 
 The herd I have found, 
 
 Sought the herdsman in vain. 
 
 But my gentle Macdonald 
 Lay stretched where he fell, 
 His head on the willow, 
 His feet in the well. 
 
 ' See Note at end. Drumuachdar is pronounced as a 
 trisyllable.
 
 DRUMUACHDAR 173 
 
 The folk with their dirl<s 
 Cutting birches so nigh thee, 
 O why did none chance 
 In that hour to pass by thee ? 
 
 Had I but been there 
 
 Ere the death chill had bound thee, 
 
 With a dry ample plaid 
 
 To fold warmly around thee : 
 
 And a quaich ^ of pure spirit 
 Thrice passed through the reek,- 
 To bring warmth to thy heart, 
 And the glow to thy cheek. 
 
 A bright fire on the floor, 
 Without smoke or ashes, 
 In a well woven bothy 
 Theeked ^ o'er with green rashes. 
 
 Not thus, O not thus. 
 But all lonely thy dying ! 
 Yet the men came in crowds 
 Where in death thou wast lying. 
 
 There was weeping and wail 
 In the crags to the west of thee, 
 
 ^ Quaich, small drinking-cup. - Reek, smoke, fire. 
 
 ^ Theeked, thatched.
 
 174 DRUMUACIIUAR 
 
 As the race of two grandsires 
 Came lorn and distressed for thee. 
 
 Thy kindred and clansmen 
 Were minj,ding their grief, 
 In the kiln ^ as they laid thee 
 And waited the chief. 
 
 Till Cluny arrived, 
 His proud head bending low, 
 Till Clan Vourich arrived. 
 Each man with his woe. 
 
 Till Clan-Ian arrived 
 To swell the great wail, — 
 They three that were oldest 
 And best of the Gael. 
 
 With them came too Clan Tavish 
 The hardiest in fight. 
 There too were his brothers. 
 Heart-sick at the sight : 
 
 '»' 
 
 And thy one little sister. 
 In life's early bloom 
 Was there too, her beauty 
 O'ershadowed with gloom. 
 
 1 Kiln, see Note at end.
 
 DRUMUACHDAR 175 
 
 And there stood his old mother 
 Wringing her hands, 
 Her grey locks down streaming 
 Unloosed from their bands. 
 
 And the lass of his love 
 Came riving her hair, 
 The look of her face 
 Wild and wan with despair. 
 
 O what crying and weeping 
 That doleful day fills 
 The hollows and heights 
 Of Drumuachdar's dark hills ! 
 
 Written 1878.
 
 LOWLAND LYRICS 
 
 N
 
 179 
 
 THE BUSH ABOON TRAOUAIR 
 
 Will ye gang \vi' me and fare 
 
 To the bush aboon ^ Traquair ? 
 Owre the high Minchmuir we'll up and awa', 
 
 This bonny summer noon, 
 
 While the sun shines fair aboon, 
 And the licht sklents - saftly doun on holm and ha'. 
 
 And what would ye do there, 
 
 At the bush aboon Traquair ? 
 A lang driech ^ road, ye had better let it be ; 
 
 Save some auld skrunts o' birk •* 
 
 r the hill-side lirk,^ 
 There's nocht i' the warld for man to see. 
 
 But the blithe lilt o' that air, 
 
 ' The Bush aboon Traquair,' 
 I need nae mair, it's eneuch for me ; 
 
 Owre my cradle its sweet chime 
 
 Cam' sughin' ^ frae auld time, 
 Sae tide what may, I'll awa' and see. 
 
 ^ Aboon, above. - Sklents, slants. ^ Driech, tedious. 
 
 ■* Skrunts d birk, ill-grown birches. ^ Lirk, hollow. 
 
 ^ Siighitt , sighing.
 
 l8o THK Ursil ABOON TKAOrAIR 
 
 And what saw ye there 
 
 At the bush aboon Traquair ? 
 Or what did ye hear that was worth your heed ? 
 
 I heard the cushies ' croon 
 
 Through the gowden - afternoon, 
 And the Ouair burn singing doun to the Vale o' Tweed. 
 
 And birks saw I three or four, 
 
 Wi' grey moss bearded owre, 
 The last that are left o' the birken shaw,-* 
 
 Whar mony a simmer'* e'en 
 
 Fond lovers did convene, 
 Thae bonny bonny gloamins ^ that are lang awa'. 
 
 Frae mony a but and ben," 
 
 By muirland, holm, and glen. 
 They cam' ane hour to spen' on the greenwood sward ; 
 
 But lang hae lad an' lass 
 
 Been lying 'neth the grass, 
 The green green grass o' Traquair kirkyard. 
 
 They were blest beyond compare, 
 When they held their trj'sting there, 
 Amang thae greenest hills shone on by the sun ; 
 
 ' Cushies, wood-doves. - Gcncdcn, golden. 
 
 ^ Birken show, flat ground at base of hill, overgrown with 
 small birch. ■• Simmer, summer. ' Gloamins, twilights. 
 
 •> But and ben, cottage kitchen and parlour.
 
 THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR i8i 
 
 And then they wan ^ a rest, 
 The lownest - and the best, 
 I' Traquair kirkyard when a' was dune. 
 
 Now the birks to dust may rot, 
 
 Names o' luvers be forgot, 
 Nae lads and lasses there ony mair convene ; 
 
 But the blithe lilt o' yon air 
 
 Keeps the bush aboon Ti-aquair, 
 And the luve that ance was there, aye fresh and green. 
 
 This and the five following poems were published in 1864. 
 1 IVan, won. - Lownest, calmest.
 
 IS2 
 
 thrip:ve castle^ 
 
 Whence should ye o'er gentle spirits 
 Such o'ermastering power achieve ? 
 
 Workers of high-handed outrage ! 
 Making king and people grieve, 
 
 O the lawless Lords of Galloway ! 
 O the bloody towers of Thrieve ! 
 
 Is it that this time- scarred visage 
 From behind five centuries dim, 
 
 Doomed to death, yet death-defying, 
 Glares the very look of him, 
 
 Who first laid these strong foundations. 
 Mighty Archibald the Grim ? 
 
 Impress of those hands is on them, 
 That beat Southron foemen down — 
 
 Iron hands, that grasped a truncheon 
 Weightier than the kingly crown — 
 
 Stalwart Earls, broad-browed, black-bearded, 
 Pinnacled on power o'ergrown. 
 
 1 See Note at end.
 
 THRIEVE CASTLE 183 
 
 These were they, lone-thoughted builders 
 
 Of yon grim keep, massy-piled. 
 Triple-walled, and triple-moated, 
 
 In Dee Island triply isled, 
 O'er the waste of dun morasses, 
 
 Eyeing Cairnsmore mountains wild 
 
 Power gat pride, pride unforgiveness — 
 Whoso crossed the moats of Thrieve, 
 
 Captive serf, or lordly foeman, 
 
 Though a monarch begged reprieve, 
 
 Had they wronged the Lord of Douglas, 
 Living ne'er these gates might leave. 
 
 Downward ! rust in yon dark dungeon 
 Rings that once held fettered thrall. 
 
 High in air, — the grooved stone gallows 
 Ghastly juts from yonder wall. 
 
 Where once swung the corse of Bombie, 
 Prelude of the Douglas' fall. 
 
 Never since from thy scathed forehead 
 Hath it passed, the bodeful gloom 
 
 Gathered there the hour thy haughtiest 
 Lord rode forth, defying doom. 
 
 To the monarch's perjured poignard, 
 And the deathly banquet room.
 
 i84 THRIEVE CASTLK 
 
 Outcast now from human uses, 
 Both by war and peace disowned, 
 
 All thy high ambitions broken, 
 All thy dark deeds unatoned, 
 
 Still thou wear'st no meaner aspect, 
 Than a despot King dethroned. 
 
 Frost and rain, and storm and thunder — 
 Time's strong wedges — let them cleave 
 
 Breaches through thy solid gables, 
 Thou wilt neither blench nor grieve ; 
 
 Thou who gav'st, wilt ask, no pity, 
 Unrelenting Castle Thrieve !
 
 1 85 
 
 DEVORGUILLA^ 
 
 OR THE ABBEY OF THE SWEET HEART 
 
 In grey Crififel's lap of granite 
 
 Lies the Abbey, saintly fair ! 
 Well the heart, that first did plan it, 
 
 Finds her earthly resting there : 
 
 Who from out an age of wildness. 
 Lawless force, unbridled crime, 
 
 Reached forth wise hands in mildness 
 Helpful to the coming time. 
 
 The rude Galloway chieftain's daughter — 
 Memory of her Norman 'knight. 
 
 And long widowed sorrow taught her 
 To make good deeds her delight. 
 
 Long ere now their names had perished. 
 Had not those wise halls, ^ she reared 
 
 By the southern Isis, cherished 
 
 Them for Founders' names revered. 
 
 1 See Note at end. - Those wise halls, Balliol College, Oxford.
 
 '86 DEVORGUILLA 
 
 While these arches o'er Nitli river, 
 Thron^red by daily passers, still 
 
 Witness here her pure endeavour 
 To complete her dear lord's will. 
 
 liut for human use or learnin'^ 
 
 Good works done, could they appease 
 
 Her long heartache ? that lone vearninf^ 
 Other medicine asked than these. 
 
 So she spake, " Rise, page, and ride in 
 Haste, this grief will not be calmed, 
 
 Til! thou from the land he died in 
 
 Bear my dead lord's heart embalmed." 
 
 Ivory casket closing round it, 
 
 With enamelled silver, fair 
 As deft hands could frame, he bound it, 
 
 And with fleet hoofs homeward bare : 
 
 Generous heart that once so truly 
 W^ith young love for her had beat, 
 
 Bore he to her home, and duly 
 Laid before the lady's feet. 
 
 One whole day her passionate sorrow 
 Inly brooded, dark and dumb. 
 
 But in silence shaped, the morrow 
 Clear as light her words did come.
 
 DEVORGUILLA 187 
 
 " Build me here, high-towered and solemn, 
 Abbey-church in fairest style, — 
 
 Pointed arch, and fluted column, 
 
 Ranged down transept, nave, and aisle." 
 
 There the dear heart laid in holy 
 
 Place, the altar-steps before, 
 Down she knelt herself in lowly 
 
 Adoration on that floor. 
 
 Thither day by day she wended, 
 
 On that same spot knelt and prayed ; 
 
 There at last, when all was ended, 
 With the heart she loved was laid. 
 
 In that place of ivied ruin 
 
 She hath taken, since the close 
 Of her life of full well-doing. 
 
 Six long centuries' repose. 
 
 Meek one ! who, 'mid proud men violent, 
 
 A pure builder unreproved. 
 Lived and laboured for the silent 
 
 Kingdom that shall ne'er be moved.
 
 1 88 
 
 THEN AND NOW 
 
 A TIME there was, 
 W^hen this hill-pass, ^ 
 
 With castle, keep, and peel.^ 
 Stood iron-teethed, 
 Like warrior sheathed 
 
 In mail from head to heel. 
 
 Friend or foe. 
 
 No man might go. 
 Out to the English Border, 
 
 Nor any ride 
 
 To Forth or Clyde, 
 Unchallenged of the Warder. 
 
 At the baron's 'hest 
 The trooper spurred. 
 
 And brought the traveller 
 Before his lord. 
 To be dungeon-mured, 
 Dark, damp, and lone, 
 
 ^ Peel, small square tower in the Border counties.
 
 THEN AND NOW 189 
 
 Till death had cured 
 His weary moan. 
 
 But time has pulled the teeth 
 
 From those fierce fangs, 
 Spread his sward of heath 
 
 O'er the riever ^ gangs ; 
 
 Hushed their castles proud, 
 
 As grave-yards still. 
 
 And streamed life loud 
 
 Through mart and mill. 
 
 Embowered among green ashes, 
 
 The grey towers sigh, Alas ! 
 As the loud train crashes 
 
 Down the rock-ribbed pass. 
 
 They come and go 
 
 Morn and eve, 
 
 Bear friend and foe. 
 
 And ask no leave. 
 
 While the towers look forth 
 
 From their gaunt decay 
 On an altered earth, 
 
 A strange new day ; 
 
 When mechanics pale 
 
 ^ Riever, robber.
 
 • 90 TIIF.N AND NOW 
 
 Oust feudal lords, 
 With wheel and rail, 
 Not blood-red swords 
 And the horny hands 
 That delve iron-ore, 
 (irasp mighty lands. 
 Chiefs ruled of yore.
 
 191 
 
 THE BLUE BELLS 
 
 Again the bonny blue bells 
 Wave all o'er our dear land, 
 
 Or scattered single, here and there, 
 Or a numerous sister band. 
 
 How many a last leave-taking 
 
 Hath darkened over youthful faces, 
 
 Since the hour ye last were here ! 
 Now in all your wonted places. 
 
 From long wintry sleep awaking, 
 Blithe ye reappear. 
 
 The same ye meet us, be we joyful. 
 Or bowed down by heavy loads. 
 
 On the thatch of auld clay biggins, ^ 
 Shedding grace o'er poor abodes, 
 
 Or from dykes - of greensward gleaming, 
 Hard by unfrequented roads. 
 
 O'er the linns of dark Clyde water 
 Ye are trembling, from the steep, 
 
 ^ Biggi'is, cottages. - Dykes, hedge-banks.
 
 192 Till-: liLUH IJKLLS 
 
 And afar on dusky moorlands, 
 
 Where the shepherd wears • his sheep, 
 
 15y the hoary headstone waving 
 O'er the Covenanter's sleep. 
 
 Ye come ere laverocks - cease their singing, 
 And abide through sun and rain, 
 
 Till our harvest-homes are ended, 
 
 And the barn-yards stored with grain ; 
 
 Then ye pass, when flock the plover 
 To warm lands beyond the main. 
 
 In your old haunts, O happy blue bells 1 
 Ye, when we are gone, shall wave, 
 
 And as living we have loved you. 
 Dead, one service would we crave. 
 
 Come, and in the west winds swinging. 
 Prank the sward that folds our grave. 
 
 1 Wears, leads cautiously to shelter. - Laverocks, larks.
 
 193 
 
 THE HAIRST RIG^ 
 
 O HOW my heart lap - to her 
 
 Upon the blithe hairst rig ! 
 Ilk 3 morning comin' owre the fur ^ 
 
 Sae gracefu', tall, and trig. 
 
 Chorus — O the blithe hairst rig ! 
 The blithe hairst rig ; 
 Fair fa' the lads and lasses met 
 On the blithe hairst rig ! 
 
 'o 
 
 At twal' 5 hours aft we sat aloof, 
 
 Aneth ^ the bielding stook, " 
 And tentlyS frae her bonny loof^ 
 
 The thistle thorns I took. 
 
 When hairst was dune and neebors met 
 
 To haud the canty kirn, i° 
 Sae fain ^^ we twa to steal awa' 
 
 And daunder up the burn. 
 
 1 Hairst Rig, harvest field at reaping-time. - Lap, leapt. 
 3 Ilk, each. ^ Fur, furrow. ^ Twal', noon. 
 
 ® Aneth, beneath. " Bielding stook, sheltering sheaves set 
 
 up against each other. » Xently, deftly. ^ Loof, open hand. 
 ^" Haud the canty kirn, keep the cheerful harvest home. 
 •'I Fain, longing. 
 O
 
 194 Tin; IIAIRST KKI 
 
 The lammies white as new-fa'en drift, 
 
 Lay quiet on the hills, 
 The clouds aboon i' the deep blue lift,i 
 
 Lay whiter, purer still. 
 
 Ay, pearly white, the clouds that night 
 
 Shone marled - to the moon, 
 But nought like you, my bonny doo ! 
 
 All earth or heaven aboon. 
 
 The burnie whimpering siller^ clear, 
 
 It made a pleasant tune ; 
 But O ! there murmured in my ear 
 
 A sweeter holier soun'. 
 
 Lang, lang we cracked,'* and went and came, 
 And daundered, laith ^ to part ; 
 
 But the ae thing I daured na name 
 Was that lay neist my heart. 
 
 Fareweel cam' owre and owre again. 
 
 And yet we could na sever, 
 Till words were spake in that dear glen, 
 
 That made us ane forever. 
 
 ^ Lift, sky. - Marled, chequered. ^ Siller, silver, 
 
 * Cracked, chatted. ' Laith, loath.
 
 195 
 
 MANOR WATER 
 I 
 
 Doth Yarrow flow endeared by dream 
 And chaunt of Bard and Poet ? 
 As fair to sight flows Manors stream, 
 And only shepherds know it : — 
 
 In autumn time when thistle down 
 Upon the breeze is sailing, 
 And from high clouds the shadows brown 
 Go o'er the mountains trailing. 
 
 3 
 
 The streams of Yarrow do not range 
 By greener holm or meadow, 
 Nor win a sweeter interchang-e 
 Of sunshine and of shadow. 
 
 '&* 
 
 4 
 And when along these heights serene 
 Go days of autumn weather, 
 How splendid then the grassy sheen 
 With bracken blent and heather.
 
 196 MANOR WATKR 
 
 5 
 When from yon liill across the glen 
 The Harvest moon doth wander, 
 She lingers o'er no strath or Ben 
 With sweeter looks and fonder. 
 
 Then what hath Yarrow, that famed stream 
 By hundred Poets chaunted, 
 To win the glory and the dream 
 This dale hath wholly wanted ? 
 
 7 
 It is not beauty, nor rich store 
 Of braver deeds and older : 
 Down all this water Peel towers hoar 
 Of stem old warriors moulder. 
 
 8 
 
 O'er these hills rode beneath the moon 
 With his Bride, Lord William^ flying ; 
 At this wan water they lighted down, 
 The stream his life blood dyeing. 
 
 1 Lord William, see "The Douglas Tragedy," in Scott's 
 Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.
 
 MANOR WATER 197 
 
 9 
 Whence then did Yarrow win her claim 
 To such poetic favour ? 
 She kept the old melodious name, 
 The old Celtic people gave her. 
 
 10 
 
 And when upon her banks befell 
 Some love-pain, or deep sorrow, 
 Some Bard was nigh to sing it well, 
 To the magic chime of Yarrow. 
 
 Written about 1867.
 
 ■ 98 
 
 SONG OF THE SOUTH COUNTREE 
 
 O THE Border Hills sae green 
 
 r the South Countree ! 
 
 With the heather streaked between 
 
 In the South Countree ! 
 
 Sae blythe as I hae been, 
 
 Sic sights as I hae seen, 
 
 Wide wandering morn to e'en 
 
 In the South Countree ! 
 
 And it's all enchanted ground 
 I' the South Countree ; 
 Fairy knowe and moated mound 
 On hill, and holm, and lea ; 
 Grey stannin ^ stane and barrow 
 Of old chiefs by Tweed and Yarrow 
 r the South Countree. 
 
 ^ Stannin, standing.
 
 SONG OF THE SOUTH COUNTREE 199 
 
 ■3 
 
 When gloamin' grey comes down 
 r the South Countree, 
 And the hills look weird and brown 
 r the South Countree, 
 High up the grey mists sail, 
 And, beneath, the river pale 
 Winds lonely down the dale, 
 r the South Countree. 
 
 4 
 At foot of hope 1 and glen. 
 In the South Countree 
 Moulder Peels 2 of stalwart men 
 r the South Countree ; 
 But quenched their day of pride 
 When they warned the water ^ wide, 
 'Gainst their foes to rise and ride 
 Frae the South Countree. 
 
 5 
 And looks of beauty rare 
 r the South Countree, 
 
 1 Hope, sloping valley between mountain-ridges. 
 
 - Peels, Border-towers. 
 
 3 Warned the water, summoned allies along the river.
 
 200 SONG OF Till-: SOUTH rorXTKKl, 
 
 Went smiling up the stair 
 
 III tlie South Countree, 
 
 When Mary, \:\nnw's flower, 
 
 Looked forth through shine and shower 
 
 From Di7hope's lonely Tower 
 
 In the South Countree. 
 
 Yet though the towers down fa' 
 r the South Countree, 
 There arc winsome flowers that blaw 
 r the South Countree I 
 O sae happy would I be 
 With her that's dear to me, 
 There to live, and there to dee, 
 r the South Countree. 
 
 Written 1867.
 
 201 
 
 THREE FRIENDS^ IN YARROW 
 
 ADDRESSED TO E. L. LUSHINGTON 
 
 O MANY a year is gone, since in life's fresh dawn, 
 
 The bonny forest over, 
 Morn to eve I wandered wide, as blithe as ever bride 
 
 To meet her faithful lover. 
 
 From Newark's birchen bower, to Dryhope's hoaiy 
 Tower, 
 Peel and Keep I traced and numbered ; 
 And sought o'er muir and brae, by cairn and crom- 
 lech grey, 
 The graves where old warriors slumbered. 
 
 3 
 
 Where'er on hope or dale has lingered some faint 
 trail 
 Of song or minstrel gloiy, 
 
 ^ See Note at end.
 
 202 TIIREF. 1KII:NI)S IN YARROW 
 
 There I drank deep draughts at will, but could never 
 drink my fill, 
 Of the ancient Border story. 
 
 4 
 
 O fond and foolish time, when to ballad and old 
 rhyme 
 Every throb of my pulse was beating ! 
 As if old world things like these could minister 
 heart-ease, 
 Or the soul's deep want be meeting ! 
 * * * * * 1 
 
 5 
 Now when gone is summer prime, and the mellow 
 autumn time 
 Of the year and of life has found us, 
 With Thee, O gentle friend, how sweet one hour to 
 spend. 
 With the beauty of Yarrow all around us I 
 
 With him too for a guide, the Poet of Tweedside, 
 Our steps 'mong the braes to order, 
 
 Who still doth prolong the fervour, torrent-strong ; 
 The old spirit of the Border. 
 
 ^ So asterisked in MS.
 
 THREE FRIENDS IN YARROW 203 
 
 Heaven's calm autumnal grey on holm and hillside 
 lay, 
 With here and there a gleaming ; 
 As the glints of sunny sheen down Herman's ^ slopes 
 of green 
 O'er St. Mary's Lake came dreaming. 
 
 8 
 
 There on Dryhope's Tower forlorn we marked the 
 rowan, born 
 From the rents of roofless ruin ; 
 And heard the [bridal] tale of the Flower of Yarrow 
 Vale,2 
 And her old romantic wooing. 
 
 9 
 
 And then we wandered higher, where once St. Mar^f's 
 quire 
 O'er the still Lake watch was keeping : 
 But nothing now is seen save the lonely hillocks 
 green, 
 Where the Shepherds of Yarrow are sleeping. 
 
 ^ Hcrma7i Law, hill marking the watershed between Yarrow 
 and Moffat waters. - See Note at end.
 
 204 TIIREK FRIENDS IX YARROW 
 
 lO 
 
 And we stood by the stone where I'iers Cockburn ^ 
 rests alone, 
 With his Bride in their dwelling narrow ; 
 And thou heard'st their tale of dool, and the wail of 
 sorrow full, 
 The saddest ever wailed on Yarrow. 
 
 II 
 
 Thou didst listen, while thine eye all lovingly did lie 
 On the green braes spread around thee ; 
 
 But I knew by the deep rapt quiet thou didst keep, 
 That the power of Yarrow had bound thee. 
 
 12 
 
 O well that Yarrow should put on her sweetest mood 
 
 To meet thy gentle being ; 
 For of both the native mien and the fortunes ye have 
 seen, 
 
 Respond with a strange agreeing. 
 
 13 
 There was beauty here before sorrow swept the Forest 
 
 oer 
 
 Its beauty more meek to render : — 
 ^ See Note at end.
 
 THREE FRIENDS IN YARROW 205 
 
 Thou wert gentle from thy birth, and the toils and 
 cares of earth 
 Have but made thee more wisely tender. 
 
 14 
 
 High souls have come and gone, and on these braes 
 have thrown 
 The light of their glorious fancies, 
 And left their words to dwell and mingle with the 
 spell 
 Of a thousand old romances. 
 
 15 
 
 And who more fit to find, [than] thou, in soul and mind 
 All akm to great bards departed, — 
 
 The high thoughts here they breathed, the boon they 
 have bequeathed 
 To all the tender hearted t 
 
 16 
 
 And we who did partake, by still St. Mary's Lake, 
 Those hours of renewed communion, 
 
 Shall feel when far apart, the remembrance at our 
 heart 
 Keeps alive our foregone soul-union.
 
 206 THRKE FRIENDS 1\ NARROW 
 
 17 
 From this world of eye and ear soon we must dis- 
 appear ; 
 But our after-life may borrow 
 From these scenes some tone and hue, when all 
 things arc made new 
 In a fairer land than Yarrow. 
 
 Written September 1878.
 
 CHARACTER PIECES
 
 209 
 
 BALLIOL SCHOLARS 
 
 1840-1843 
 
 A REMEMBRANCE 
 
 Within the ancient College-gate I passed, 
 
 Looked round once more upon the well-known 
 square : 
 
 Change had been busy since I saw it last, 
 Replacing crumbled walls by new and fair ; 
 
 The old chapel gone — a roof of statelier show 
 
 Soared high — I wondered if it sees below 
 As pure heart-worship, as confiding prayer. 
 
 But though walls, chapel, garden, all are changed, 
 And through these courts quick generations fleet, 
 
 There are whom still I see round table ranged, 
 In chapel snowy-stoled for matins meet ; 
 
 P
 
 210 BALLIOL SCHOLARS 
 
 Though many faces since have come and gone, 
 Changeless in memory these still live on, 
 
 A Scholar brotherhood, high-souled, complete. 
 
 3 
 From old foundations where the nation rears 
 
 Her darlings, came that flower of England's youth 
 And here in latest teens, or riper years, 
 
 Stood drinking in all nobleness and truth. 
 By streams of Isis 'twas a fer\'id time. 
 When zeal and young devotion held their prime. 
 
 Whereof not unreceptive these in sooth. 
 
 4 
 The voice that weekly from St. Mary's spake,^ 
 
 As from the unseen world oracular, 
 Strong as another Wesley, to re-wake 
 
 The sluggish heart of England, near and far, 
 Voice so intense to win men, or repel, 
 Piercing yet tender, on these spirits fell, 
 
 Making them other, higher than they were. 
 
 5 
 Foremost one stood, with forehead high and broad,- — 
 Sculptor ne'er moulded grander dome of thought, — 
 Beneath it, eyes dark-lustred rolled and glowed, 
 
 1 J. H. (Cardinal) Newman. - Arthur H. Clough.
 
 BALLIOL SCHOLARS 211 
 
 Deep wells of feeling where the full soul wrought ; 
 Yet lithe of limb,, and strong as shepherdboy, 
 He roamed the wastes and drank the mountain joy, 
 
 To cool a heart too cruelly distraught. 
 
 6 
 
 The voice that from St. Mary's thrilled the hour. 
 He could not choose but let it in, though loath ; 
 
 Yet a far other voice with earlier power ^ 
 
 Had touched his soul and won his first heart-troth, 
 
 In school-days heard, not far from Avon's stream : - 
 
 Anon there dawned on him a wilder dream. 
 
 Opening strange tracts of thought remote from both. 
 
 7 
 All travail pangs of thought too soon he knew. 
 
 All currents felt, that shake these anxious years. 
 Striving to walk to tender conscience true. 
 
 And bear his load alone, nor vex his peers. 
 From these, alas ! too soon he moved apart ; 
 Sorrowing they saw him go, with loyal heart. 
 
 Such heart as greatly loves, but more reveres. 
 
 Away o'er Highland Bens and glens, away 
 He roamed, rejoicing without let or bound. 
 
 ^ Dr. Arnold. 2 Rugby.
 
 212 liAI.LIOL SCHOLARS 
 
 And, yearning still to vast America, 
 
 A simpler life, more freedom, sought, not found. 
 Now the world listens to his lone soul-songs ; 
 But he, for all its miseries and wrongs 
 
 Sad no more, sleeps beneath Italian ground. 
 
 Beside that elder scholar one there stpod,^ 
 
 On Sunday mornings 'mid the band whitestoled, 
 
 As deep of thought, but chastened more of mood, 
 Devout, affectionate, and humble-souled. 
 
 There, as he stood in chapel, week by week, 
 
 Lines of deep feeling furrowing down his cheek 
 Lent him, even then, an aspect strangely old. 
 
 lo 
 
 Not from the great foundations of the land, 
 But from a wise and learned father's roof, 
 
 His place he won amid that scholar band, 
 Where finest gifts of mind were put to proof ; 
 
 And if some things he missed which great schools 
 teach. 
 
 More precious traits he kept, beyond their reach, — 
 Shy traits that rougher world had scared aloof. 
 
 ^ Rev. Constantine Prichard.
 
 BALLIOL SCHOLARS 213 
 
 1 1 
 
 Him early prophet souls of Oriel 
 
 A boy-companion to their converse drew, 
 
 And yet his thought was free, and pondered well 
 All sides of truth, and gave to each its due, 
 
 O pure wise heart, and guileless as a child ! 
 
 In thee, all jarring discords reconciled. 
 
 Knowledge and reverence undivided grew. 
 
 12 
 
 Ah me ! we dreamed it had been his to lead 
 The world by power of deeply-pondered books, 
 
 And lure a rash and hasty age to heed 
 
 Old truths set forth with fresh and winsome looks ; 
 
 But he those heights forsook for the low vale 
 
 And sober shades, where dwells misfortune pale. 
 And sorrow pines in unremembered nooks. 
 
 Where'er a lone one lay and had no friend, 
 A son of consolation there was he ; 
 
 And all life long there was no pain to tend. 
 No grief to solace, but his heart was free ; 
 
 And then, his years of pastoral service done. 
 
 And his long suffering meekly borne, he won 
 A grave of peace by England's southern sea.
 
 214 BALLIOL SCHOLARS 
 
 M 
 
 More than all arguments in deep books stored, 
 Than any preacher's penetrative tone, 
 
 More than all music by rapt poet poured, 
 
 To have seen thy life, thy converse to have known, 
 
 Was witness for thy Lord — that thus to be 
 
 Humble, and true, and loving, like to thee — 
 This was worth living for, and this alone. 
 
 IS 
 
 Fair-haired and tall, slim, but of stately mien,i 
 
 Inheritor of a high poetic name, 
 Another, in the bright bloom of nineteen. 
 
 Fresh from the pleasant fields of Eton came : 
 Whate'er of beautiful or poet sung. 
 Or statesman uttered, round his memory clung ; 
 
 Before him shone resplendent heights of fame. 
 
 i6 
 
 With friends around the board, no wit so fine 
 To wing the jest, the sparkling tale to tell ; 
 
 Yet ofttimes listening in St. Mary's shrine, 
 Profounder moods upon his spirit fell : 
 
 We heard him then, England has heard him since, 
 
 1 J. D. (Lord) Coleridge.
 
 BALLIOL SCHOLARS 215 
 
 Uphold the fallen, make the guilty wince, 
 
 And the hushed Senate hav^e confessed the spell. 
 
 17 
 There too was one, broad-browed, with open face,^ 
 
 And frame for toil compacted — him with pride 
 A school of Devon ^ from a rural place 
 
 Had sent to stand these chosen ones beside ; 
 From childhood trained all hardness to endure, 
 To love the things that noble are, and pure. 
 
 And think and do the truth, whate'er betide, 
 
 18 
 
 With strength for labour, " as the strength of ten," 
 To ceaseless toil he girt him night and day ; 
 
 A native king and ruler among men. 
 
 Ploughman or Premier, born to bear true sway ; 
 
 Small or great duty never known to shirk. 
 
 He bounded joyously to sternest work, — 
 Less buoyant others turn to sport and play. 
 
 19 
 Comes brightly back one day — he had performed 
 
 Within the Schools some more than looked-for feat, 
 And friends and brother scholars round him swarmed 
 
 ^ Frederick Temple (Bishop of London). - Tiverton School.
 
 2l6 I5ATJ.IOL SCHOLARS 
 
 To give the day to gladness that was meet : 
 Forth to the fields \vc fared, — among the young 
 Green leaves and grass, his laugh the loudest rung ; 
 
 Beyond the rest his bound flew far and fleet. 
 
 20 
 
 All afternoon o'er Shotover's breezy heath 
 
 We ranged, through bush and brake instinct with 
 spring, 
 
 The vernal dream-lights o'er the plains beneath 
 Trailed, overhead the skylarks carolling ; 
 
 Then home through evening-shadowed fields we went, 
 
 And filled our College rooms with merriment, — 
 Pure joys, whose memory contains no sting. 
 
 And thou wast there that day, my earliest friend ' 
 In Oxford ! sharer of that joy the while ! 
 
 Ah me, with what delightsome memories blend 
 
 " Thy pale calm face, thy strangely-soothing smile ;" 
 
 What hours come back, when, pacing College walks. 
 
 New knowledge dawned on us, or friendly talks 
 Inserted, long night-labours would beguile. 
 
 ^ J. Rillingsly Seymour.
 
 BALLIOL SCHOLARS 217 
 
 What strolls through meadows mown of fragrant hay, 
 On summer evenings by smooth Cherwell stream, 
 
 When Homer's song, or chaunt from Shelley's lay, 
 Added new splendour to the sunset gleam : 
 
 Or how, on calm of Sunday afternoon, 
 
 Keble's low sweet voice to devout commune, 
 
 And heavenward musings, would the hours redeem. 
 
 But when on crimson creeper o'er the wall 
 Autumn his finger beautifully impressed, 
 
 And came, the third time at October's call. 
 Cheerily trooping to their rooms the rest, 
 
 Filling them with glad greetings and young glee, 
 
 His room alone was empty — henceforth we 
 By his sweet fellowship no more were blest. 
 
 24 
 Too soon, too quickly from our longing sight, 
 
 Fading he passed, and left us to deplore 
 From all our Oxford day a lovely light 
 
 Gone, which no after morning could restore. 
 Through his own meadows Cherwell still wound on. 
 And Thames by Eton fields as glorious shone — 
 
 He who so loved them would come back no more.
 
 2i8 15ALLI0L SCHOLARS 
 
 Amon<; that scholar band the youngest pair ^ 
 In hall and chapel side by side were seen, 
 
 Each of high hopes and noble promise heir, 
 But far in thought apart — a world between. 
 
 The one wide-welcomed for a father's fame, 
 
 Entered with free bold step that seemed to claim 
 Fame for himself, nor on another lean. 
 
 26 
 
 So full of power, yet blithe and debonair, 
 
 Rallying his friends with pleasant banter gay. 
 
 Or half a-dream chaunting with jaunty air 
 Great words of Goethe, catch of B^ranger. 
 
 We see the banter sparkle in his prose. 
 
 But knew not then the undertone that flows. 
 So calmly sad, through all his stately lay. 
 
 27 
 
 The other of an ancient name, erst dear 
 
 To Border Hills, though thence too long exiled, 
 
 In lore of Hellas scholar without peer, 
 
 Reared in grey halls on banks of Severn piled : 
 
 Reserved he was, of few words and slow speech, 
 
 1 Matthew Arnold and James Riddell.
 
 BALLIOL SCHOLARS 219 
 
 But dwelt strange power, that beyond words could 
 reach, 
 In that sweet face by no rude thought defiled. 
 
 28 
 
 Oft at the hour when round the board at wine, 
 Friends met, and others' talk flowed fast and free, 
 
 His listening silence and grave look benign 
 More than all speech made sweet society. 
 
 But when the rowers, on their rivals gaining, 
 
 Close on the goal bent, every sinew straining — 
 Then who more stout, more resolute than he ? 
 
 29 
 
 With that dear memory come back most of all 
 Calm days in Holy Week together spent ; 
 
 Then brightness of the Easter Festival 
 
 O'er all things streaming, as a-field we went 
 
 Up Hincksey vale, where gleamed the young primroses, 
 
 And happy children gathered them in posies, 
 Of that glad season meet accompaniment. 
 
 Of that bright band already more than half 
 
 Have passed beyond earth's longing and regret ; 
 The remnant, for grave thought or pleasant laugh.
 
 220 BALLIOL SCHOLARS 
 
 Can meet no longer as of old they met : 
 Yet, O pure souls ! there arc who still retain 
 Deep in their hearts the high ideal strain 
 
 They heard with you, and never can forget. 
 
 31 
 
 To have passed with them the threshold of young life, 
 Where the man meets, not yet absqrbs the boy, 
 
 And, ere descending to the dusty strife. 
 
 Gazed from clear heights of intellectual joy, 
 
 That an undying image left enshrined, 
 
 A sense of nobleness in human kind, 
 
 Experience cannot dim, nor time destroy. 
 
 32 
 Since then, through all the jars of life's routine, 
 
 All that down-drags the spirit's loftier mood, 
 I have been soothed by fellowship serene 
 
 Of single souls with heaven's own light endued. 
 But look where'er I may — before, behind — 
 I have not found, nor now expect to find, 
 
 Another such high-hearted brotherhood. 
 
 'o' 
 
 Published March 1873.
 
 221 
 
 DEAN STANLEY AT ST. ANDREWS 
 
 Guest ! but no stranger, — many a time before 
 Thy feet had turned with fervour all thine own, 
 To pace our lost Cathedral's grass-grown floor. 
 Through skeleton walls and altars overthrown ; 
 To trace dim graves where saint and martyr sleep, 
 Or wander where wild moor and sea-washed keep 
 Saw mitred heads, by bloody hands struck down. 
 
 Long lay these memories blank to common eyes, 
 Waiting their Poet : — thy voice ringing clear. 
 Pealed through our halls — the buried shades arise. 
 The strifes of former centuries re-appear. 
 And mighty names historic, in long line. 
 Starting to life, before our vision shine. 
 Majestic, as they moved in presence here. 
 
 Passed soon that thrilling hour : and we too pass 
 But that fine strain of wisdom shall not flee 
 Transient as shadows over summer grass. 
 But dwell, we trust, in many a heart, and be 
 A power benign, for good that shall endure,
 
 222 DEAN STANLEY AT ST. ANDREWS 
 
 A spring of aspiration high and pure, 
 Of large forbearance and sweet courtesy. 
 
 Those stirring tones, their every rise and fall, — 
 That vivid countenance, that winning mien, 
 Some youth to listening ears shall yet recall 
 In far days on, when we no more are seen ; 
 *' Stanley's voice long ago, like trumpet call, 
 I heard it thrill St. Andrews' antique hall, — 
 None other such have heard through all the years 
 between." 
 
 St. Salvator's College, St. Andrews, 19th April 1875.
 
 THE DEATH OF PRINCE ALBERT 
 
 These hoary, dialed, belfry Towers 
 Have counted many centuries' hours, 
 
 But never tolled so doleful chime. 
 As that slow, solemn knell to-day 
 They pealed for him just passed away, 
 
 The Prince laid low in manhood's prime. 
 
 It thrills through every tower and town, 
 From where the cliffs of Dover frown. 
 
 To far Orcadian headlands rolled. 
 Saddening the people, high and low, 
 From hall to humblest hut, as though 
 
 In every home one heart were cold. 
 
 All mourn with her who wears the crown. 
 Bowed in a lonelier sorrow down. 
 
 Than any mourner in the land. 
 Weeping above his darkened dust. 
 To whom she leaned in love and trust, 
 
 The strong stay of her sceptred hand.
 
 224 Tin-: DEATH OK rRIN'ClC ALBERT 
 
 Well may she mourn, so humbly great 
 He stood beside her, unelate, 
 
 Lending the might true wisdom lends, 
 Far-reaching thought, truth-tempered will, 
 And upward aim, yet calm and still 
 
 To guide the State to noble ends. 
 
 How lofty and benign his course ! 
 From vain self-seeking, harmful force. 
 
 And splendid idlesse, all removed 1 
 Pure in himself, and toward the pure 
 Serene things, that alone endure. 
 
 Still labouring, stedfast, unreproved. 
 
 But that cold voice ! — through palace gate 
 It passed, unchallenged, guards that wait 
 
 Around those portals night and day ; 
 Passed on, unheard, by page and groom. 
 Pierced to that stately, silent room. 
 
 And coldly whispered, " come away." 
 
 We start, as though noon-day, that shone 
 A moment since, were quenched and gone ; 
 
 Falls dim eclipse the land athwart. 
 And, only now thy head is low. 
 These islands in their sorrow know 
 
 The all thou wert, O princely heart ! 
 
 St. Andrews, December 1861.
 
 225 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 SIR JAMES SIMPSON, Bart. M.D. 
 
 Hath then that Hfe-long combatant with death, 
 He who so oft the tyrant foiled, 
 Who stayed for many, a while, their fleeting breath, 
 Sunk of his might despoiled ? 
 
 Ah ! Yes ! that native strength of nerve and brain 
 Wrested from powers till then unknown 
 The marvellous anodyne ^ for others' pain. 
 But found none for his own. 
 
 Thousands in every land beneath the sun 
 Will hear that word, and, hearing, grieve. 
 The head is low that for the sufferer won 
 So gracious a reprieve. 
 
 Hath God then sat behind the clouds and heard 
 The helpless generations groan 
 Through all those ages, by no pity stirred, 
 How much soe'er they moan — 
 
 1 Chloroform. 
 Q
 
 226 ON THE DEATH OF SHi JAMES SIMPSON 
 
 He, Who by one small fiat of His will, 
 One move of His Almighty hand, 
 Could bid all human agony be still, 
 And sorrow countermand ? 
 
 Is man so pitiful, our God so hard, 
 
 Doth the weak labour to relieve 
 
 Weak fellow-man, the strong have no regard, 
 
 How much soe'er they grieve ? 
 
 In the great fountain whence that pity came. 
 The thought that filled that mortal mind, 
 Is there not, unexhausted, of the same 
 Large residue behind ? 
 
 Not coldly contemplating human pain 
 
 In highest Heaven He sits aloof. 
 
 But stoops Himself to bear the stress and strain, 
 
 And puts His Love to proof 
 
 For He the winepress red with anguish trod, 
 And let the Father's heart shine through 
 As not impassive — but a suffering God, 
 With whom we have to do. 
 
 To combat with our spiritual foes 
 
 He from the height of heaven descends.
 
 ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES SIMPSON 227 
 
 Down to the lowest depth, and counts 
 Who will to follow, Friends. 
 
 And not alone for those few human years 
 He underwent our load of ill, 
 But all the days of old He bore, and bears 
 The whole world's burden still. 
 
 O mystery of evil ! Whence it came 
 What thought can fathom, — yet we know 
 He strives man's desolation to reclaim, 
 And counterwork our woe. 
 
 And they, throughout all time, who have wrought 
 
 in love 
 For human kind, form one great band 
 Of brother workers, in forefront of which. 
 Chief worker, Christ doth stand. 
 
 'J 
 
 Written 1870.
 
 228 
 
 SPRING. 1876 
 
 No softer south than this did ever fall, 
 The calmed heavens no gentler look e'er cast, 
 On wakening earth through any spring time, all 
 The generations past. 
 
 This is the season that through Chaucer's veins 
 'Mid England's woods, a thrill of gladness sent ; 
 The same with Wordsworth's most ethereal strains 
 'Mid his own mountains blent. 
 
 Yet all spring-melodies of bards have voiced 
 How small a moiety of the mighty sum. 
 Wherewith, in past Springs, countless hearts rejoiced 
 In gladness deep, though dumb.
 
 SPRING, 1S76 229 
 
 4 
 Season of hope they named thee — fondly dreamed 
 Thou wert the pledge of fairer hours to be — 
 Hath any summer e'er that pledge redeemed 
 To poor humanity ? 
 
 5 
 And we whose hearts erewhiie when Spring came 
 
 round 
 With hearts of friends for joy were wont to leap, 
 Think how to-day Spring touches many a mound, 
 
 'Neath which those loved ones sleep ! 
 
 One 1 rests, ah dearest ! by Tay's lucent wave, 
 Under a great crag's overshadowing brow, 
 To Christ unseen his pure strong life he gave — 
 We trust he sees Him now. 
 
 7 
 And One,- — beneath roars factory, forge, and mart ! 
 Above — the still green fell, and boyhood's glen, — 
 There rests o'erwearied that large human heart, 
 That brother man of men. 
 
 1 Henry Alexander Douglas: - Norman Macleod : — See 
 Note at end.
 
 230 STRING, 1876 
 
 8 
 
 Can we, for whom the face of earth is filled 
 So full of graves, on Spring look any more, 
 And entertain the vernal hopes that thrilled 
 Our hearts in springs of yore ? 
 
 9 
 
 Therefore we will not take these vernal moods 
 For promise of sure earthly good to be ; 
 We will not go to cull through budding woods 
 The frail anemone. 
 
 10 
 
 Rather to us shall all this floral sheen, 
 That breadth of wood so fresh, so lustrous-leaved, 
 Hint of a beauty that no eye hath seen, 
 No human heart conceived.
 
 2^1 
 
 HIGHLAND STUDENTS^ 
 
 Beyond the bay, beyond the gleaming sands, 
 This Sabbath eve, that sunset from the bank 
 Of clouds down-breaking on yon Highland hills 
 Is gilding there, I wot, the new-made grave 
 Of one we knew and loved. But two days gone, 
 In an old mountain kirk-yard, underneath 
 The great Schihallion, by a full-flowing stream, 
 They happed the green sward o'er his noble head ; 
 And that was all of him. Five years agone. 
 When the chill autumn, by the waning birks 
 And the wa-gang ^ o' the swallow, warned us down 
 From summering on the hills to winter work. 
 In the clachan •* by the loch-side came to us 
 A Highland matron, gentle, tall, and pale ; 
 And in sweet Celtic tone spake of her son. 
 " Her only boy, her Duncan, he was bound 
 
 1 See Note at end. ^ Duncan Campbell. 
 
 2 Wa-gang, departure. ^ Clachan, village.
 
 23^ IlKilll.ANI) STLDKNTS 
 
 In a lew weeks for college. He had been 
 
 An cidcnl ' karner in the village school, 
 
 Much honoincil Ijy the teacher. To themselves 
 
 Kind son he was, and alway dutiful ; 
 
 Sparing himself no labour, so he might 
 
 Lighten their burden. Now his heart was set 
 
 On finding better learning, they would do 
 
 Their best to help him through his student years." 
 
 And then she ceased, commending him to me. 
 
 Soon as November opened college doors. 
 Young Duncan entered : tall and strong, like one 
 Who had seen hardness, and was fit for more. 
 His countenance and mien bespoke a heart 
 True to llic core as sturdiest Lowlander's, 
 \'ct sweetened more than Lowland manners are 
 l')y the fine courtesy of the ancient (lael. 
 Each winter morn I saw him in his place. 
 Between two students of the same clan-name : 
 One, scion of a house renowned of old ; 
 The other humbler. As he sat and heard 
 The lore of Rome unrolled, his listening mind 
 Drank, and expanded as the daisied bank 
 Spreads to the sun in May-time. When spring 
 
 brought 
 Once more the early swallows, home he hied 
 ' Eident, diligent.
 
 HIGHLAND STUDENTS 233 
 
 To his own mountains, bearing back withal 
 
 A good report, and a fair scholar's name. 
 
 That summer tide on a bleak mountain edge 
 
 I found my student ; he had doffed the gown 
 
 For the rough mason's gear, to labour there 
 
 A-dyking with his father. All day long 
 
 They built those dry-stone walls that miles and miles 
 
 Cross ridgy backs of hills, to part sheep farms 
 
 Or lands of neighbouring lairds. In that lone place 
 
 How cheery was his greeting ! while he told 
 
 How there he wrought the solid day, and saved 
 
 What margin might be won from morn or eve 
 
 For book-work. Something of his history more 
 
 That time I learnt, 'mid his own people — how 
 
 In a sequestered place, where no school was. 
 
 An old clay cottage he had made his school, 
 
 And taught the children of the shepherds with 
 
 Those of poor crofters. If a shepherd lad 
 
 In all that country wished to mend his lore, 
 
 He had recourse to Duncan. I have talked 
 
 Upon the autumn braes with youths whose thought 
 
 For clearness made me marvel, and I found 
 
 That they had Ijeen with him. In every home. 
 
 From high Brae-Lyon all down Tummel, he 
 
 For his well-doing had an honoured name. 
 
 Three following winters he returned, and gleaned 
 
 What lore our college yields, and from all hearts,
 
 234 IIIf.HI.AND STUDENTS 
 
 Both those who taught and tliosc who learned with 
 
 him, 
 Earned not less honour than on Rannochside. 
 But neither learning nor esteem of men 
 Aught changed his nature's strong simplicity. 
 How oft o' nights, when nor'-winds from the sea 
 Howled round our gables, hath he sat and cheered 
 Our hearth with legends from the hills ! — wild tales 
 Of ghostly voices heard up Doirie-vhor, 
 And wandering people from their senses frayed, 
 By the weird lochan.^ Sometimes would he bring 
 Snatches of ancient song, in summer gleaned 
 From hoary men — wild Celtic melodies — 
 In long Glen Lyon, or by lone Loch Treig, 
 For ages sung, but now, like morning mists, 
 From the glens disappearing. 
 
 When the time 
 Had come that he must crown with a degree 
 His four years' toil, the struggle was severe, — 
 But the end was honour, and a good reward. 
 And then the goal that he had looked to long — 
 The Christian ministry — seemed almost won. 
 But God had willed he should not touch that goal. 
 Scarce had he entered on the untried field 
 Of Hebrew learning, when or toils foregone, 
 ' Lochan, diminutive of loch.
 
 HIGHLAND STUDENTS 235 
 
 Or new work underta'en for self-support, 
 
 Or for the old folk at home, so wore him that 
 
 He other seemed than the Duncan that we knew. 
 
 Last yule came bitter chill, and fierce-fanged winds 
 
 Seized his strong frame, and with joint-racking rheums 
 
 Stretched him on bed of pain for many days. 
 
 With Spring we saw him creeping out once more, 
 
 But with sunk cheek and feeble ; yet we said 
 
 Summer on his own mountains meeting him 
 
 Will breathe the health back Winter hath brought low. 
 
 But he had other warnings, — chilling faints 
 
 That said these hopes were vain ; and yet through all 
 
 He bore a cheerful heart. But that last morn 
 
 Just ere he left the old collegiate town, 
 
 He grasped his best friend by the hand, and said, 
 
 " I know that I return no more." The day 
 
 He journeyed home was cold, a biting wind 
 
 Smote him, and when he entered the old home 
 
 It only was to lay him down and die. 
 
 Through weary weeks of struggle that remained, 
 
 Mother and one sole sister tended him 
 
 Their best — did what poor human love will do ; 
 
 But ere the longest day came, that dear life — 
 
 Joy of their hearts, their one sole hope on earth — • 
 
 Faded before them into eternity. 
 
 And now Schihallion's shadow on his grave 
 
 Rests, and morn smites and night pavilions there
 
 236 IIKilll.AM) STUDENTS 
 
 High overhead, and ilic river roars beneath. 
 But what to liiin tlicse mountain pageantries ? 
 And what to them, poor hearts ! that pine hard by, 
 Whom spring or summer can make glad no more ? 
 Yet, O ye mourners ! though ye needs must go 
 Lorn for him all your days — a little while 
 In faith hold on, and ye shall see him, where 
 For them found faithful in a few things here 
 There yet remain the many things of God ! 
 
 Published 1867, 
 
 IP 
 
 The mighty shadow which Schihallion flings 
 
 To nor'ward, falls athwart a hillock green, 
 
 A steep green knoll, with one sole elm-tree crowned, 
 
 And a forsaken place of burial. 
 
 Thither, — before the turf on Duncan's grave, 
 
 Yonder, the other side of Tummel stream, 
 
 Had knit itself with green, — a student-friend 
 
 Was carried to his last lone resting-place. 
 
 Climb we the knoll so steep and green, to see 
 
 The small kirkyard, along the smooth top spread. 
 
 Its roofless long-abandoned chapelry, 
 
 And mossed wall crumbling round it. There they lie, 
 
 Under rough mountain slabs, without a name, 
 
 ^ Ewan Cameron.
 
 HIGHLAND STUDENTS 237 
 
 By tall weeds overgrown, the old Rannoch men, 
 Stewarts, Macgregors, Camerons. On one side, 
 Beneath the spread of that great elm-tree's boughs, 
 A headstone gleams more than the rest adorned, 
 That marks the grave of Ewan Cameron. 
 Here sit we down upon the lichened wall, 
 The while I tell thee all the brief sad tale, 
 Brief, but not sad, of the young sleeper there. 
 Natives of this same strath these lads were born. 
 To the same college student-friends they came. 
 Yonder their homes lie, scarce a mile between, 
 Duncan's within the clachan by the loch, 
 Ewan's, that farmstead 'neath the bielding hill, 
 In trees half-hid. Now half a mile apart 
 Lie their two graves, the river flowing between. 
 Poor was his farm, not numerous the flock 
 That Ewan's father on that mountain fed, 
 And only with sore struggle he prevailed 
 'Gainst pressure of hard times to hold his own, 
 And rear his children, sheltering from toil 
 The tender youth of Ewan, eldest born. 
 His parents, grave and serious, held the faith 
 Of a small remnant of religious men. 
 Living in households sprinkled near and far 
 Among the glens. In dawn of life from these, 
 Their strict home ways, their Sabbath pieties, 
 Ewan had drunk a stern and fervid faith,
 
 238 HIGHLAND STUDENTS 
 
 Yet tempered well by native gentleness. 
 For very gentle he was, with open heart 
 To kindly nature. In the village school 
 On the same bench by Duncan's side he sat, 
 Was taught by the same master. School hours o'er. 
 They took the Braes together, ranged at will 
 The ample folds of broad Benchualach, 
 Cuddling ^ for trouts far up the mountain bums, 
 And gathering wortles and ripe blaeberries. 
 High on the heights where the red gor-cock crowed. 
 Against the scarlet clouds by sunset flamed 
 Back from Ben Aulder and the peaks that crowd 
 Far westward to Ben Nevis, That free life 
 Had mellowed whatsoe'er austerity 
 Might else have been engendered. When he came 
 With Duncan to the old collegiate town. 
 Beneath the college archway ne'er had passed 
 A comelier lad. His tall and shapely form 
 And easy carriage showed him strange to toil, 
 But on his thoughtful brow and clear pale cheek 
 Rested a shadow, as of pain foregone. 
 Whene'er you spoke to him, you were aware 
 Of a calm dignity and natural grace, 
 Brought whence you knew not, that was finer far 
 Than any gathered in the polished world. 
 When he conversed with men, his manners wore 
 ^ Cuddling, groping.
 
 HIGHLAND STUDENTS 239 
 
 A mild reserve ; but soon as he addressed 
 A lady, through his mien and words there shone 
 A high-born courtesy, had well beseemed 
 The gentle Cameron of the " Forty-five." 
 
 Two winters he abode with us. Even now 
 I seem to see him in the college room, 
 In his appointed place, with intense look, 
 Quick to respond to aught of higher mood 
 As a hill-lochan on a serene day 
 To take the gleams and shadows. To that seat 
 How many faces since have come and gone, 
 But none of all so filled with repressed fire, 
 And reverent thought, and grave sweet purity. 
 
 A shorter space Ewan remained with us 
 Than Duncan did ; and his health less robust 
 And shyer spirit made him more withdraw 
 From the outer world, and shelter him within 
 A smaller circle. But on these his friends 
 He turned a side of winning gentleness, 
 Which they gave back with a peculiar love. 
 Hence he passed southward to an English hall, 
 Where his own people reared their ministers ; 
 And then, his years of preparation done. 
 Came forth a preacher, not in his own glens 
 To native Celtic clansmen, but far south,
 
 240 IIKillLAXI) STUDKNTS 
 
 In low, dull flats, beside the streams of Don, 
 
 'Mid Yorkshire factory folk to minister, 
 
 A stranger amid strangers. lUn few weeks 
 
 Passed, ere the warm thrill of a living faith. 
 
 Streamed through his Celtic fervour eloquent, 
 
 Had touched the tough but honest \'orkshire hearts 
 
 And drawn them all towards him. It befell. 
 
 One sultry day in the midsummer tide. 
 
 When he had made a tiysting to addrfess 
 
 The people gathered 'neath the open sky. 
 
 And speak of things divine, he missed the train. 
 
 And five miles ran afoot to keep his tryst. 
 
 Then a long hour, o'er-heated, on a mound 
 
 He stood bare-headed, pleading earnestly — 
 
 So very earnestly — for eternal things, 
 
 He heeded not the accidents of time. 
 
 Next morn strong fever had him in its grasp, 
 
 And a short space sufficed to bring him low, 
 
 So low that they who watched said, " We write 
 
 To call your mother hither." — " No," he said, 
 
 " A few days more and I shall gather strength, 
 
 Then I am going home." And home he went. 
 
 But to another home than Rannoch side. 
 
 Then those kind factory people of themselves 
 
 Chose certain men, who, at their charges, bore 
 
 His body back to this his native glen. 
 
 And placed it down within his father's door.
 
 HIGHLAND STUDENTS 241 
 
 Upon the coffin was a lid of glass, 
 
 Placed there by these same kind and careful hands, 
 
 That parents, sisters, brothers, might once more 
 
 Look on that face ere dust was strewn on it 
 
 For ever. Then they gathered — all his kin. 
 
 His friends in youth, those strangers from afar. 
 
 And bore him from that farm, and laid him down 
 
 Here in this sweet and solitary grave. 
 
 And over it the same kind strangers reared 
 
 That head-stone, with his name and these few words. 
 
 That tell how fervently he sought their good, 
 
 How his sweet manners, gentle purity. 
 
 Won them, and that for their great love to him, 
 
 They carried him that long road that he might rest 
 
 Amid his kindred's dust — and he rests well. 
 
 But none of his own kindred any more 
 
 Shall come to sleep beside him. They are all gone 
 
 To find new homes and graves in virgin earth 
 
 Beyond Missouri River. None the less 
 
 Here he sleeps well, as Duncan over there, 
 
 Two student-friends, the flower of Rannoch youth. 
 
 Each in his early grave, with Tummel stream 
 
 Between them, and Schihallion over all. 
 
 Their earthly lore they took from us awhile. 
 
 But now they learn the heavenly, and have seen 
 
 The secret things that we still wait to know. 
 
 Published 1872. 
 
 R
 
 242 HIGHLAND STUDENTS 
 
 UP 
 
 But one more grave, and that completes the tale 
 
 Of Student lads from Rannoch. Twenty years 
 
 And more have vanished, since from yonder farm, 
 
 The other side the valley, passed two youths, 
 
 Clad in grey hodden, from their own sheep spun. 
 
 To the ancient College - by the Eastern sea. 
 
 Reared amid mountain lonelinesses, where. 
 
 Save the shy curlew's call, or wild glead's scream. 
 
 No living voices come, they had beheld, 
 
 Winter by winter, o'er Schihallion climb 
 
 The late cold mom, as they went forth to toil, 
 
 Beside their father, in his swampy fields, 
 
 About the base of Ben-a-choualach, — 
 
 Broad Ben-a-choualach, that stands to guard 
 
 The north side of the vale over against 
 
 Schihallion, its great brother-sentinel. 
 
 There, with all Nature's grandeurs round them shed, 
 
 And blending with their daily thoughts and toil. 
 
 Their boyhood grew ; yet from work out of doors 
 
 Leisure of nights and stormy days was saved 
 
 For learning ; and the village teacher lent 
 
 His kindly aid, till, ere the elder saw 
 
 His eighteenth summer, they were fit to essay 
 
 ^ John Macgregor. - University of St. Andrews.
 
 HIGHLAND STUDENTS 243 
 
 The Student life at College. Forth they fared, 
 
 Those simple-hearted lads, — a slender stock 
 
 Of home provisions, a few well-worn books, 
 
 A father's blessing and a mother's prayers. 
 
 All their equipment, as they set their face 
 
 Toward that new Student world. How hard it is 
 
 To climb the hill of Learning, when young souls 
 
 Have early felt the chill of poverty, 
 
 And stress of numbing toil, through all their powers ! 
 
 The elder, Ian, was a climber strong. 
 
 In body and mind, to breast the steep himself, 
 
 And with a ready hand of help to spare 
 
 For his less valiant brother. Many a time. 
 
 When I had taught them lore of ancient Rome 
 
 Till past noon-tide, ere winter afternoons 
 
 In darkness closed, Ian would come and be 
 
 My teacher in the language of the Gael. 
 
 Strange, old-world names of mountains, corries, burns. 
 
 On the smooth side of Loch Rannoch, or the rough, 
 
 We conned their meaning o'er. And he would tell. 
 
 Of dim, old battles, where his outlawed clan. 
 
 Along the dusky skirts of Rannoch Moor 
 
 Had clashed 'gainst wild Macdonalds of Glencoe, 
 
 And gallant Stewarts from Appin. Or he told 
 
 Of black bloodhounds let loose by Campbell foes. 
 
 From corrie and cairn to hunt his clansmen down 
 
 Through long Glen Lyon ; and the frantic leap
 
 244 men LAND STUDENTS 
 
 Over the rock-pent chasm and foaming flood, 
 
 And the lorn coronach by his widow wailed 
 
 O'er fall'n Macgregor of Rozo. None the less, 
 
 But more for these brief Celtic interludes, 
 
 He plied the midnight hours, till four full years 
 
 Of strenuous study, by the longed-for hope, 
 
 A good Degree, were crowned ; and by his aid 
 
 The younger brother the same goal attained. 
 
 A few more years of poor and patient toil. 
 
 Within another seat of learning, gave 
 
 To each the full rank of Physician. Then 
 
 They took — the brothers took — their separate ways. 
 
 Early the younger on the world's high road 
 
 Fainted, — the battle was too sore for him ; 
 
 He sank ere noon of day, and found a grave 
 
 Far from his own Schihallion. Strong of frame, 
 
 Well proved in Netley wards, the elder sailed 
 
 Physician to a regiment Eastward-bound. 
 
 There beneath Indian suns plying his art, 
 
 Faithful and kindly, he from comrades won 
 
 Liking and much regard, and good repute 
 
 With those set over him. Step by step he climbed. 
 
 Till he attained an ofifice high in trust. 
 
 In old Benares. Then the first to feel 
 
 The kind glow of his bettered fortunes were 
 
 His parents, whom he summoned to lay down 
 
 Their toiling days for comfortable ease,
 
 HIGHLAND STUDENTS 245 
 
 And the cold Rannoch braeside for the warm, 
 Well-wooded Vale of Tay. A home therein 
 He had provided them — a sheltered home — 
 With a green croft behind, and bright out-look 
 O'er the clear river to the southern noon. 
 While there they passed the evening of their days 
 In quiet, month by month he gladdened them 
 By letters quaintly writ in Gaelic tongue. 
 English was but the instrument wherewith 
 He trafficked with the world ; the Gaelic was 
 The language of his heart, the only key 
 That could unlock its secrets. When he met 
 A Gael on Indian ground, he greeted him 
 In the dear language ; if he answered well, 
 That was at once a bond of brotherhood. 
 And when at length he made himself a home, 
 To the young prattlers round his knee he told 
 The mountain legends his own childhood loved, 
 With Gaelic intermingled. Then he took 
 And blew the big pipe, till the echoes rang, 
 Through old Benares by the Ganges stream, 
 With the wild pibrochs of the Highland hills. 
 While all things seemed with him to prosper most. 
 Strangely and suddenly there fell on him 
 A deep, fond yearning for his native land, — 
 Longing intense to be at home once more. 
 Just then it chanced that, sore by sickness pressed,
 
 246 HIGHLAND STUDENTS 
 
 The old man, his fatlicr, to the Rannoch farm 
 
 Had wandered back, and laid him down to die. 
 
 This hcarinj^, homeward Ian set his face 
 
 In haste, and reached his native roof in time 
 
 Only to hear his father's blessing breathed 
 
 From lips already cold. A bleak grey noon 
 
 Of May 'twas when they bore the old man forth 
 
 Across the vale, and laid him in his rest 
 
 Beneath Schihallion, among kindred dead. 
 
 There, while his son stood by the open grave. 
 
 Bareheaded, the chill east wind through and through 
 
 Smote him, enfeebled by the Indian clime. 
 
 A few weeks more, and by the self-same road 
 
 Him, too, the mourners bore across the vale. 
 
 To lay him down close by his father's side. 
 
 In that old kirk-yard on the hillock green. 
 
 Where is the grave of Ewan Cameron. 
 
 Strange by what instinct led, they two alike, 
 
 Father and son, sought the old home to die ! 
 
 And so they rest, all that is mortal rests, 
 Of those three Students, in their native vale ; 
 Two on this side the Rannoch river, one 
 Beyond it ; and above them evermore 
 Schihallion's shadow lying, and his peak 
 Kindling aloft in the first light of dawn. 
 
 Written 1881.
 
 VARIA
 
 249 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE ALMA 
 
 Once more the peaceful years 
 From their long slumber leap, 
 And British guns and British cheers 
 Are thundering by the Pontic deep. 
 There the mighty of the West, 
 On Humanity's behest, 
 France's bravest, England's best, 
 Are marshalling on the far Sarmatian shore. 
 
 Through that chill dawning grey 
 
 No bugle muster sung, 
 All noiseless to their war array 
 From the damp earth the warriors sprung. 
 
 Fair the autumn morning shines 
 
 On the red and azure lines. 
 
 Sweeping o'er the long declines 
 Between Crimean uplands and the main. 
 
 Lo ! where that mountain flank 
 
 Down toward ocean runs, 
 Legions of Russia, rank o'er rank, 
 Stand ready by their yawning guns.
 
 250 Tin: BATTLE OK TIIK ALMA 
 
 Yonder France to battle springs, 
 Cloud on cloud, her Zouaves flings 
 Up the crags, as borne on wings ; 
 While great broadsides are bellowing on the shore. 
 
 Full on our British front 
 
 The loud hill cannonades, 
 As full against that awful brunt 
 Yon Chieftain cheers his brave Brigades. 
 
 Forward, gallant Fusileers ! 
 
 Forward, where your Chief appears. 
 
 Young in heart, though blanched with years ; 
 Who would not follow w-here he leads the way ? 
 
 Breast-deep the stream they ford, 
 
 The thundering hill-side scale, 
 While down their close ranks, like a sword, 
 Shears the broad sheet of iron hail. 
 
 Though the foremost files are low, 
 
 Clutch the colours, upward go, 
 
 Breast to breast against the foe. 
 And silence those death-breathing guns. 
 
 They are silenced — Fusileers ! 
 
 Stern work ye had to do, 
 Mowed down in front of all your peers. 
 To Duty and your Countr)' true :
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE ALMA 251 
 
 Still from yonder mountain-crown 
 Dark the battle-front doth frown, 
 Massive squares are moving down 
 The current of the conflict back to roll. 
 
 Ho ! Guardsmen, with your bold 
 
 Battalions to the van I 
 Charge, Clans of Scotland ! as of old, 
 With level bayonets, man to man. 
 
 There the Guards, black-helmed and tall 
 
 Solid as a rock-hewn wall, 
 
 'Gainst the storm of shell and ball 
 In firm battalions up the mountain move. 
 
 And there the Mountaineers, 
 
 How terribly they come ! 
 With bayonets down and ringing cheers 
 Campbells and Camerons charging home. 
 
 O to have heard their Highland shout ! 
 
 Bursting past the dread Redoubt, 
 
 When the foemen rolled in rout, 
 Shrank from the onset of the plaided Clans. 
 
 Thou, Leader Chief of all ! 
 
 Who, battle-days long gone. 
 Hast stood, while thousands round did fall. 
 By the right hand of Wellington,
 
 252 THE i;attle of the alma 
 
 Say, for thou canst witness yield, 
 Hast thou looked on siege or field. 
 E'er by braver life-blood sealed. 
 Than that which consecrateth Alma's hills ? 
 
 Aye I Britain's standard waves 
 
 O'er Alma's uplands bare, 
 But all its path lies strewn with graves 
 Of them who died to plant it there ! 
 
 Gently warrior hands have spread 
 
 Green turf o'er their brothers' head ; 
 
 Leave them there, our noble dead, 
 Their dust to that far land, — their souls to God. 
 
 Written 1854.
 
 253 
 
 GRASMERE 
 
 Since our long summer in yon blissful nook, 
 Six years, not changeless, intervene ; 
 
 Those friends all scattered, I return and look 
 Down on this peace serene. 
 
 O happy vision I depth of spirit-balm ! 
 
 For hearts that have too deeply yearned. 
 This still lake holding his majestic calm 
 
 'Mid his green hills inurned. 
 
 There dwell, repeated the clear depths among, 
 Hills more aerial, skies of fairier cloud, 
 
 Hard by, yon homestead, where the summer long 
 Our laughters once were loud. 
 
 Still gleam the birch-trees down that pass as fair. 
 
 Nor less melodious breaks 
 The Rotha murmuring down his rocky lair, 
 
 Between his sister lakes. 
 
 With the six following poems, published in 1864.
 
 254 
 
 PARTING 
 
 O DOOMED to go to sunnier climes, 
 With the wa'-gang o' the swallow, 
 
 Thee prayers, far-borne from happier times 
 And earnest friendship, follow. 
 
 Thou leav'st us, ere from moorlands wild 
 
 The plover-flocks have flown, 
 For lands that have their winters mild, 
 
 As summer in thine own. 
 
 Sadly we watch that vessel's track 
 
 O'er the wan autumnal sea. 
 For spring that brings the swallow back 
 
 Will bring no word of thee. 
 
 Thy " wound is deep,"' earth's balmiest breeze 
 
 Can breathe no healing now : 
 Those eyes must close on lands and seas. 
 
 To ope, ah ! where, and how ?
 
 PARTING 255 
 
 O breathe on him, thou better breath ! 
 
 That can the soul-sick heal, 
 And as the mortal languisheth, 
 
 The immortal life reveal.
 
 256 
 
 POETIC TRUTH 
 
 O FOR truth-breathM music ! soul-like lays I 
 Not of vain-glory born, nor love of praise, 
 But welling purely from profound heart-springs, 
 That lie deep down amid the life of things. 
 And singing on, heedless though mortal ear 
 Should never their lone murmur overhear. 
 
 When through the world shall voice of poet shine, 
 Alike true to the human and divine ? 
 Full of the heart of man, yet fuller fed 
 At the o'erflow of that divine well-head, 
 From which, as tiny drops, to earth is brought 
 Whate'er is pure of love, and true in thought, 
 To which all spirits, in the flesh that be, 
 Are as scant rillets to the infinite sea.
 
 257 
 
 PRAYER 
 
 Ye tell us prayer is vain — that the divine plan 
 
 Disowns it, and as waves in-driven from mid-seas 
 
 Break on the headlands, Nature's strong decrees 
 
 Dash back his weakness on the heart of man. 
 
 Against the universe who can prevail ? 
 
 Will a voice cleave the everlasting bars ? 
 
 The heart's poor sigh o'er-soar the loftiest stars 
 
 And through all laws to a Divine Will scale ? 
 
 Too oft will the perplexed soul question thus, 
 
 And yet these great laws that encompass us 
 
 Of the meanest things on earth consult the weal, 
 
 Are very pitiful to the worms and weeds. 
 
 Turn they a deaf ear when the warm heart pleads ? 
 
 He who did plant that heart, will He not feel ?
 
 258 
 
 RELIEF 
 
 Who seeketh finds : what shall be his relief 
 
 Who hath no power to seek, no heart to pray, 
 
 No sense of God, but bears as best he may, 
 
 A lonely incommunicable grief? 
 
 What shall he do ? One only thing he knows, 
 
 That his life flits a frail uneasy spark 
 
 In the great vast of universal dark. 
 
 And that the grave may not be all repose. 
 
 Be still, sad soul I lift thou no passionate cry, 
 
 But spread the desert of thy being bare 
 
 To the full searching of the All-seeing eye : 
 
 Wait — and through dark misgiving, blank despair, 
 
 God will come down in pity, and fill the dry 
 
 Dead place with light, and life, and vernal air.
 
 259 
 
 MEMORIES 
 
 As the far seen peaks of Alpine ranges 
 In their robe of virgin snow endure, 
 
 High o'er Europe plains and earthborn changes, 
 Calmly and imperishably pure ; 
 
 Thus, e'en thus, so lofty and so holy, 
 O'er our poor life's ordinary moods 
 
 High aloof, yet very loving and lowly, 
 Shine the blessed Christ's Beatitudes. 
 
 Near them Paul's pure charity eternal 
 
 Dwelling keeps, above earth's cloudy clime, 
 
 Beckoning worn hearts upward by its vernal 
 Brightness from these murky flats of time. 
 
 And from off those summits do not voices, 
 All divine, yet very human, come ? 
 
 Hearing which awe-struck the soul rejoices. 
 As at echoes from a long-lost home.
 
 26o MEMORIES 
 
 Deem not these are young earth's hymeneal 
 Chaunts, no after age can e'er repeat ; 
 
 Something all at variance with the real 
 
 World that meets us in the field and street. 
 
 Doth not memory from the past recover 
 
 Some who near us once did move and breathe, 
 
 Names, that as we read those high words over, 
 Fitly might be written underneath ? 
 
 Blessed gifts of God, that our poor weakness 
 Might not only hear, but soothly see, 
 
 What of truth and love, what might of meekness, 
 In our flesh in very deed might be. 
 
 While they here sojourned their presence drew us 
 By the sweetness of their human love. 
 
 Day by day good thoughts of them renew us. 
 Like fresh tidings from the world above ; 
 
 Coming, like the stars at gloamin' glinting 
 
 Through the western clouds, when loud winds 
 cease. 
 
 Silently of that calm country hinting, 
 
 Where they with the angels are at peace. 
 
 Not their own, ah I not from earth was flowing 
 That high strain to which their souls were tuned.
 
 MEMORIES 261 
 
 Year by year we saw them inly growing 
 
 Liker Him with Whom their hearts communed. 
 
 Then to Him they passed ; but still unbroken, 
 Age to age, lasts on that goodly line. 
 
 Whose pure lives are, more than all words spoken, 
 Earth's best witness to the life divine. 
 
 Subtlest thought shall fail, and learning falter, 
 Churches change, forms perish, systems go, 
 
 But our human needs, they will not alter, 
 Christ no after age shall e'er outgrow. 
 
 Yea, amen ! O changeless One, Thou only 
 
 Art life's guide and spiritual goal. 
 Thou the Light across the dark vale lonely, — 
 
 Thou the eternal haven of the soul !
 
 262 
 
 HIDDEN LIFE 
 
 Ay, true it is, our dearest, best beloved, 
 Of us unknowing, are by us unkr^pwn, 
 
 That from our outward survey far removed, 
 Deep down they dwell, unfathomed and alone. 
 
 We gaze on their loved faces, hear their speech, 
 The heart's most earnest utterance, — yet we feel 
 
 Something beyond, nor they nor we can reach. 
 Something they never can on earth reveal. 
 
 Dearly they loved us, we returned our best. 
 
 They passed from earth, and we divined them not, 
 
 As though the centre of each human breast 
 Were a sealed chamber of unuttered thought. 
 
 r 
 
 Hidden from others do we know ourselves ? 
 
 Albeit the surface takes the common light ; 
 Who hath not felt that this our being shelves 
 
 Down to abysses, dark and infinite ?
 
 HIDDEN LIFE 263 
 
 As to the sunlight some basaltic isle 
 
 Upheaves a scanty plain, far out from shore, 
 
 But downward plungeth sheer walls many a mile, 
 'Neath the unsunned ocean floor. 
 
 So some small light of consciousness doth play 
 On the surface of our being, but the broad 
 
 And permanent foundations every way 
 Pass into mystery, are hid in God. 
 
 The last outgoings of our wills are ours ; 
 
 What moulded them, and fashioned down below, 
 And gave the bias to our nascent powers, 
 
 We cannot grasp nor know. 
 
 O Thou on Whom our blind foundations lean, 
 In Whose hand our wills' primal fountains be, 
 
 We cannot — but Thou canst — O make them clean ! 
 We cast ourselves on Thee. 
 
 From the foundations of our being breathe 
 
 Up all their darkened pores pure light of Thine, 
 
 Till, in that light transfigured from beneath. 
 We in Thy countenance shine.
 
 264 
 
 I HAVE a life with Christ to live, 
 But, ere I live it, must I wait 
 Till learning can clear answer give 
 Of this and that book's date ? 
 
 I have a life in Christ to live, 
 I have a death in Christ to die ; — 
 And must I wait, till science give 
 All doubts a full reply ? 
 
 Nay rather, while the sea of doubt 
 Is raging wildly round about. 
 Questioning of life and death and sin, 
 
 Let me but creep within 
 Thy fold, O Christ, and at Thy feet 
 
 Take but the lowest seat, 
 And hear Thine awful voice repeat 
 In gentlest accents, heavenly sweet. 
 
 Come unto Me, and rest : 
 
 Believe Me, and be blest. 
 
 Written 1868.
 
 265 
 
 'TwiXT gleams of joy and clouds of doubt 
 
 Our feelings come and go ; 
 Our best estate is tossed about 
 
 In ceaseless ebb and flow. 
 
 No mood of feeling, form of thought, 
 
 Is constant for a day ; 
 But Thou, O Lord ! Thou changest not ; 
 
 The same Thou art alway. 
 
 I grasp Thy strength, make it mine own, 
 My heart with peace is blest ; 
 
 I lose my hold, and then comes down 
 Darkness and cold unrest. 
 
 Let me no more my comfort draw 
 From my frail hold of Thee, — 
 
 In this alone rejoice with awe ; 
 Thy mighty grasp of me.
 
 266 
 
 Out of that weak unquiet drift 
 
 That comes but to depart, 
 To that pure Heaven my spirit lift 
 
 Where Thou unchanging art. 
 
 Lay hold of me with Thy strong grasp, 
 
 Let Thy Almighty arm 
 In its embrace my weakness clasp, 
 
 And I shall fear no harm. 
 
 Thy purpose of eternal good 
 
 Let me but surely know ; 
 On this I'll lean, let changing mood 
 
 And feeling come or go ; 
 
 Glad when Thy sunshine fills my soul ; 
 
 Not lorn when clouds o'ercast ; 
 Since Thou within Thy sure control 
 
 Of love dost hold me fast. 
 
 Written 1871.
 
 ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES
 
 269 
 
 ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES 
 
 Page 3. Glen Desseray appeared in The Celtic Magazine, 
 1877, preceded by the note subjoined : — 
 
 " The following poem attempts to reproduce facts heard, 
 and impressions received, during the wanderings of several 
 successive summers among the scenes which are here de- 
 scribed. Whatever view political economists may take of 
 these events, it can hardly be denied that the form of human 
 society, and the phase of human suffering, here attempted to 
 be described, deserve at least some record. If the lesser 
 incidents of the poem are not all literally exact, of the main 
 outlines and leading events of the simple story it may well 
 be said, ' It's an ower true tale.' 
 
 " The story is supposed to be told by a grandson of the 
 Ewen Cameron, and a nephew of the Angus Cameron of the 
 poem — one who, as a boy, had seen and shared in the 
 removal of the people from his native glen." 
 
 The scene is laid in the two great glens which open 
 towards Loch Arkaig on the north. 
 
 This Poem is printed from a Text which had the Author's 
 own corrections attached to it, and a few omissions have now 
 been made, for the purpose of carrying out wishes more than 
 once expressed by him. 
 
 Page 13. Shinty fray. — A game in which bats, somewhat 
 resembling golf-clubs, are used. There are two goals called 
 "hails"; the object of each party being to drive the ball 
 beyond their opponent's hail. — -Jainieson. 
 
 Page 15. Loop.—Th.Q English word "loop" is used as, 
 perhaps, the best to represent the far more expressive Gaelic 
 word Itiib, which is applied to windings or bends of rivers. — 
 J. C. S.
 
 270 ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES 
 
 Page 35. 
 
 Never 'ivhile I hreatlic shall mortal 
 
 Grasp this hand which touched the Prince: — 
 
 This is literally true of Hugh Chisholni, one of the seven 
 men who sheltered the Prince, on his way north, in the 
 Cave of Corombian. Chisholm went afterwards to reside in 
 Edinburgh, where many called on him out of curiosity, to 
 see one who had been such a devoted adherent of Prince 
 Charlie. Chisholm received money from several of these 
 admirers, and in return, while thanking them, he always 
 offered them a shake of his left hand, excusing himself for 
 not giving the right, by saying that since Jie had shaken 
 hands with the bonnie Prince at parting, he resolved never 
 to give his right hand to any man, until he saw the Prince 
 again. 
 
 Page 60. I las-wool. — See Burns's song, " I coft a stane 
 o' haslock woo'." " Haslock, or hauselock wool is the 
 softest and finest of the fleece, and is shorn from the throats 
 of sheep in summer heat, to give them air and keep them 
 cool." — Allan Citiniinj^hatn : — J. C. S. 
 
 Page 88. The Mountain Walk. — In his " Mountain 
 Walk " Shairp was accompanied by an intelligent old 
 Highlander from Kilmallie, whose forefathers had resided 
 for many generations among the glens at the head of Loch 
 Arkaig. The country which they traversed forms the western 
 portion of the mainland of Inverness-shire. It is of vast 
 extent, and from the inaccessibleness of its situation, the 
 wildness of its scenery, and the sparseness of its population, 
 it is emphatically denominated throughout the Highlands as, 
 Na Garbh-chriochan — i.e. The Rough Bounds. Among the 
 corries and caves of this remote region. Prince Charles Edward 
 and some of his most distinguished followers sought conceal- 
 ment after Culloden. In the wanderings of the young Prince, 
 Shairp was deeply interested. Throughout his life he re- 
 tained a very vivid recollection of the scenery described in 
 this poem. 
 
 Writing a few years ago to an old St. Andrews student, 
 who resided near Loch Arkaig, he made minute inquiries as
 
 ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES 271 
 
 to the route the Prince had taken when on a certain occasion 
 he was closely surrounded by troops. In the course of his 
 letter he described the scene, giving the local names, and 
 expressing an opinion as to a particular " pass " through 
 which he supposed the escape to have been effected. 
 
 This poem should be read in connection with Glen 
 Desseray. 
 
 Page 98. Glen-Sallach. — Near Kildalloig in Argj'le, the 
 home of the author's mother. He was taken there as a 
 young child, and the impression left on him by the glen was 
 never effaced. 
 
 Page 106. SW-Gaoil. — The legend is of the death of 
 Diarmid, founder of the Clan Campbell. He slew, at 
 Torintuirc, West Loch Tarbert, Argyleshire, a poisonous boar 
 that had long infested the district, and while measuring it 
 had one of his hands pierced with a bristle. As he was 
 bleeding to death from the wound, he wished to be taken to 
 where he could see the Sliabh (Sleeav), and looking towards 
 it he said : — 
 
 that is, 
 
 Sliabh mo gaol, sliabh mo gaol s' mo chaisd, 
 Cha deide misse suas go brach, 
 S' cha chairren usa anuas am' feist. 
 
 Mountain of my love, mountain of my love, and my darling, 
 
 I will not go up — for ever, 
 
 And thou wilt not come down — ever. 
 
 Sli' [i.e. Sliabh) Gaoil is a lofty mountain near Kilberry. 
 
 Page no. Caillcach Bein-y-Vreich (Beinn-a'-Bhric). — 
 The Cailleacli was a beanshith or fairy that often appeared 
 to hunters in the gloaming of summer evenings, gathering 
 and milking the hinds on a hillside, while she sang some 
 wild air, such as dairy-maids still use to soothe the cow while 
 she is being milked. She was very tall, and wore on her 
 head a spotted kerchief, and her long grey locks waved over 
 her shoulders. Sometimes she wore hose, but often she was 
 seen with no covering below the ankle. 
 
 She always wore a yellow robe about her. In winter she 
 was often seen by women, driving her herd of deer to the
 
 272 ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES 
 
 shore ; and tlicy said llial wlion slie took the form of a grey 
 (leer, their kailyards suflered. She denies this in her song, 
 however. If any hunter saw the Cailleach,' he knew well it 
 was useless for him to roam the forest that day. One time, 
 in spite of her having been seen, a Lochaber hunter went to 
 the hill in search of deer. When he had spent the whole 
 day in wanderinii,', without coming upon any deer, and he was 
 engaged lighting a fire, and singing the verses accompanying 
 an air which he composed as he went on, suddenly, when 
 he looked up, after the fifth verse was completed, he saw the 
 Cailleacli, wIkj continued the song from the fifth verse to 
 the end.— .SV/// Gorm (p. ill) appears to be a poetic name : 
 Setil, gem : Gorm, blue — The Blue Jewel. 
 
 Page 121. The wild kerne. — Irish troops in the army of 
 Edward I in the campaign of 1298. Sir Neil. — The places 
 here referred to are to be found in the Pass of Brander, near 
 Oban. This was the scene of many sanguinary conflicts. — 
 See Introduction and Notes to Scott's llii^hland IVidaiv. 
 
 The following is from The Statistical Account of Scot- 
 land : — " MacPhaidan, an Irishman, who was serviceable to 
 Edward I when engaged in his attempt to subvert the in- 
 dependence of Scotland, and to whom that monarch, in 1297, 
 made a grant for his services of the lordship of Argyle and 
 Lorn, was attacked by Sir William Wallace, and defeated 
 A. D. 1300, at the north-east side of Ben Cruachan, near to 
 the Pass of Brainder. Wallace on his way to Argyleshire 
 was met in Glendochart by Sir Neil Campbell, knight of 
 Lochaw, with 300 men. They found MacPhaidan posted 
 at Ben Cruachan. The onset is said to have been keen. 
 Many hundreds of MacPhaidan's followers were driven to 
 the lake and drowned ; and though he himself, with fifteen 
 men, fled to a neigiibouring cave in the face of Craig-an- 
 Araidh, his retreat was discovered and he was there slain." 
 
 Sir Neil Campbell was an ancestor of J. C. Shairp 
 through the Campbells of Auchinbreck. 
 
 Page 1 24. Duncan Ban Maclntyre. — An excellent sketch 
 of his life and account of his poetry, with specimens trans- 
 lated by Shairp, will be found in his Aspects of Poetry, chap, 
 x: Oxford, 1881.
 
 ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES 273 
 
 Page 1 30. Glen Torridon. — It is situated in the north-west 
 of Ross-shire, in the peninsula between Loch Carron and 
 Loch Torridon. 
 
 Page 134. Loch Torridon. — This poem and Loch Ericlit, 
 p. 159, appear never to have received the writer's final touches. 
 
 Page 162. October. — The neighbourhood of Cuil-a-luinn, 
 Aberfeldy, on the Tay, Shairp's Highland home in summer 
 and autumn, is described in this playful imitation of the 
 delightful English Autumn scene by Keats. 
 
 Page 164. Garth Castle. — Alexander Stuart, son of King 
 Robert II., commonly known, for his ferocity, as the Wolf 
 of Badenoch, burnt the cathedral and town of Elgin, owing 
 to a quarrel with the bishop. He is said to have built Garth 
 Castle, and to have founded the family of the Stuarts of Garth, 
 who possessed it till recent times. His tomb, surmounted 
 by a marble effig)% is still to be seen in the cathedral of 
 Dunkeld.— J. C. S. 
 
 Page 172. Drnmiiachdar. — Thisballad from the Badenoch 
 country is given as a specimen of Shairp's translations from 
 the Gaelic. The incident upon which the eleg)' is founded, 
 according to a writer in The Celtic Ufagazine for May 1887, 
 (who gives the original words), must have occurred in the 
 last century. " The cattle, at Blargie, in Upper Bade- 
 noch, being let loose on a sunny day in early spring, became 
 frantic with delight of their novel and unexpectedly-acquired 
 freedom, and betook themselves to the hills, heedless of 
 consequences. The herd — a young man named Macdonald 
 — followed them as far as Drumuachdar, which extends 
 between Dalwhinnie and Dalnacardoch. While he traversed 
 that solitary and sterile tract, the weather, then proverbially 
 fickle, changed terribly. A blinding snowstorm set in ; and 
 the unfortunate lad never more found his way home."' The 
 elegy is said to have been poured forth by Macdonald's 
 True-love, who joined in the search for him. 
 
 The Rev. T. Sinton of Glengarry states that the copy 
 of the Gaelic original with which he supplied Shairp was 
 fragmentar}'.
 
 274 II.LUSTKATIX !•: NOTES 
 
 Page 174. A'i7/i.— Ml. Siiiton writes: — "A kiln for 
 hardening corn pre])aratory to grinding was to be found in 
 connection with every /cr7c'>i. The actual kiln was situated 
 at one end of a house to which it gave its name. It was in 
 this building that the body of the dead herd was laid — much 
 to the grief of his friends. For the kiln was reckoned a 
 place of evil omen. Generally it was the scene of all the 
 unca)iiiy events of the (mvit. Therefore it was that when 
 Cluny — the leading man of the country — arrived, he im- 
 mediately ordered Macdonald's body to be removed from 
 the kiln. 
 
 Until quite recently Highland gentlemen attended the 
 humblest funerals in their neighbourhood ; and the people 
 always expected their presence at the scene of any untoward 
 event such as that which forms the theme of this ballad." 
 
 Page 182. Thricve Castle. — This is the ancient seat of the 
 Douglases, in Kirkcudbright, on an island in the Dee. 
 William, eighth Earl of Douglas, who defied James II, 
 imprisoned in Thrieve Castle, in 1452, Maclellan, guardian 
 of Lord Bombie, the ancestor of the Earls of Kirkcudbright. 
 When James sent Sir Patrick Gray with a letter requesting 
 the release of the prisoner, William insisted on his visiter 
 dining before business, and meanwhile had Maclellan be- 
 headed in the castle court. After dinner he read the King's 
 letter, and then, in professed deference to his injunctions, 
 offered Gray the body, saying that he had possessed himself 
 of the head some time before. This haughty act led to 
 Douglas's own death soon afterwards. 
 
 Page 185. Devorgiiilla. — New, or Sweetheart Abbey, is 
 pleasantly situated eight miles south of Dumfries. It was 
 erected in 1275 by Devorguilla, in memory of her hus- 
 band, John P.aliol. She had had his heart embalmed and 
 placed in an ornamented ivory case ; and when she died 
 this was laid on her bosom, and buried with her, in accord- 
 ance with her own instructions. Thus originated the romantic 
 name of the Abbey. 
 
 Page 201. Three Friends in Yarrffiu. — Edmund Lushing- 
 ton, some time Professor of Greek in Glasgow, — Professor
 
 ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES . 275 
 
 Veitch, — and the Author. — Pie7-s Cockburn ; see "Lament of 
 tlie Border Widow," in The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. 
 The Editor has put than for as in stanza 1 5 : but Shairp uses 
 as for than elsewhere. 
 
 Page 203. The F/ozver of Yarroiv Vale. — The reference 
 is to Mary Scott, daughter of John Scott of Dryhope. She 
 was called " The Flower of Yarrow," and was married in 
 1576 to Walter Scott of Harden, afterwards known as " Auld 
 Wat," a famous man on the Borders. According to the 
 tradition, Dryhope was to keep Harden in man's meat and 
 horse's meat for a year and a day, and, after the marriage, 
 five barons engaged that Harden should remove from Dry- 
 hope Tower at the expiry of the stipulated period. Harden, 
 on his part, was to give Dryhope the fraits of the first raid 
 under the Michaelmas moon. Under the marriage contract 
 Harden endows his bride with certain of his lands, and 
 Dryhope engages to give his daughter 400 merks Scots, 
 " at the time of the said Walter and Marion's passing to 
 their ' awin hous.'" — The Author of the poem was a lineal 
 descendant of Mary Scott of Dryhope. 
 
 Page 228. Spriui;, 1876: Stanza 6. — Mr. T. Bayne 
 writes : " Henry Alexander Douglas, brother-in-law of Prin- 
 cipal Shairp, had been one of his earliest friends at Glasgow 
 University. He was a distinguished English churchman, 
 and became Bishop of Bombay. He died in 1875, and his 
 burial-place is under Weem Craig, near the River Tay." 
 
 Stanza 7. — These lines refer to Dr. Norman Macleod 
 (Barony Church, Glasgow), one of the most widely-known 
 Scotsmen of the nineteenth century. 
 
 The lifelong friendship between Macleod and Shairp be- 
 gan in 1837, at Glasgow University, where they constantly 
 met, reading often together, with intense enjoyment, Words- 
 worth's Poems, and having many common sympathies. Dr. 
 Macleod's grave is at Campsie, in Stirlingshire, his early 
 home. " On the one side are the hum of business and the 
 houses of toiling humanity. On the other green pastoral 
 hills and the silence of Highland solitudes." See Memoirs 
 of Dr. N'orman Macleod, by his brother. Incumbent of Park 
 Church, Glasgow.
 
 276 ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES 
 
 Page 231. Ilii^hland Students. — Duncan Camplx:!!, M.A., 
 St. Andrews: died at Bridgend, Rannoch, nth June 1867, 
 aged 23 years. Rev. Ewan Cameron, Pastor of Baptist 
 Churcli. (^uarmby Oaks, Yorkshire: died 6th July 1867. 
 John .Macgregor entered the Bengal Medical Service : died 
 at Drumglass, Rannoch, 22d June 18S1, aged 39 years. 
 
 All were students at St. Andrews whilst J. C. Shairp 
 held the post of Professor of Humanity.
 
 277 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 A bowshot from the loch aloof 
 Again the bonny blue bells 
 As the far seen peaks of Alpine ranges 
 A time there was .... 
 Ay, true it is, our dearest, best-beloved 
 
 Beyond the bay, beyond the gleaming sands . 
 By the wee birchen corries lie patches of green 
 
 Child of the far-off ocean flood 
 
 Darhng Flowers ! at last I've found you . 
 Days on days, the East wind blowing 
 Doth Yarrow flow endeared by dream 
 Down to Loch Nevish went the day 
 
 Early young Angus rose to meet 
 Eighty years have come and gone . 
 
 From beaten paths and common tasks reprieved 
 
 Garth Castle, he hath borne the brunt 
 
 Guest ! but no stranger, — many a time before . 
 
 Ha ! there he comes, the headlong Highland River 
 Hath then that life-long combatant with death 
 
 PAGE 
 
 191 
 
 188 
 262 
 
 231 
 112 
 
 167 
 
 19s 
 36 
 
 45 
 3 
 
 164 
 221 
 
 144 
 225
 
 J78 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 I have a life with Christ to hvc 
 
 In grey Criffel's lap of granite 
 
 In this bare treeless forest lone 
 
 I watched the sun fall down with prone descent 
 
 264 
 
 '85 
 106 
 128 
 
 Land of bens and glens and corries 
 
 114 
 
 N'o softer south than this did ever fall 
 
 228 
 
 October misty bright, the touch is thine . , . 
 O doomed to go to sunnier climes . 
 O'er the dreary moor of Rannoch . 
 O for truth-breathed music ! soul-like lays 
 ■ O how my heart lap to her .... 
 Oh wherefore cam ye here, Ailie 
 O many a year is gone, since in life's fresh dawn 
 O marvellous Glen of Torridon 
 O mountain stream ! so old, yet ever young 
 Once more by mighty Cruachan, and once more 
 Once more the peaceful years .... 
 On the braes around Glenfinnan 
 O the Border Hills sae green .... 
 O wae on Loch Laggan ! . . . . 
 
 162 
 
 254 
 100 
 256 
 
 193 
 146 
 201 
 130 
 170 
 119 
 249 
 108 
 198 
 172 
 
 Seven Summers long had fired the glens . 
 Since our long summer in yon blissful nook 
 Soon as the kindling dawn had tipt 
 Still let me dive the glens among 
 
 68 
 253 
 
 53 
 157 
 
 That summer glen is far away ..... 98 
 
 The homes long are gone, but enchantment still lingers . 124 
 
 The showers are over, the skiffing showers . . 149 
 
 The spray may drive, the rain may pour .... 104 
 
 These hoary, dialed, belfry Towers .... 223 
 
 'Twi.\t gleams of joy and clouds of doubt . 265
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 Up the long corrie, through the screetan rents . 
 
 Weird wife of Bein-y-Vreich ! horo ! horo 
 
 Whence should ye o'er gentle spirits 
 
 When early morning o'er the mountains high 
 
 When from copse, and craig, and summit 
 
 Who seeketh finds : what shall be his relief 
 
 Will ye gang \vi' me and fare . 
 
 Within the ancient College-gate I passed 
 
 Ye tell us prayer is vain — that the divine plan . 
 
 279 
 
 PAGE 
 140 
 
 no 
 
 182 
 
 22 
 
 179 
 209 
 
 THE END 
 
 Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh.
 
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