Part 12

The stag is airy, brisk, and light, And no pomp has he; Though his garb’s the fashion quite, Never haughty he: Yet a mantle’s round him spread, Not soon threadbare, then shed, And its hue as wax is red-- Fairly clothing him.

The delight I felt to rise At the morning’s call! And to see the troops I prize The hills thronging all: Ten score with stately tread, And with light uplifted head, Quite unpampered there that fed, Fond and fawning all.

Lightsomely there came From each clean and shapely frame, Through their murmuring lips, a tame Chant, with drawling fall. In the pool one rolled a low-- With the hind one played the beau, As she trotted to and fro, Looking saucily.

I would rather have the deer Gasping moaningly, Than all Erin’s songs to hear Sung melodiously; For above the finest bass Hath the stag’s sweet voice a grace, As he bellows on the face Of Ben Dorain.

Loud and long he gives a roar From his very inmost core, Which is heard behind, before, Far and fallingly; But the hind of softer notes, With her calf that near her trots, Match each other’s tuneful throats, Crying longingly.

Her eye’s soft and tender ray With no flaw in it, O’er whose lid the brow is gray, Guides her wandering feet: Very well she walks, and bold, Lively o’er the russet wold, Tripping from her desert hold Most undauntingly.

Faultless is her pace, And her leap is full of grace-- Ha! the last when in the race Never saw I her:

When she takes yon startled stride, Nor once turns her head aside, Aught to match her hasty pride Is not known to me.

But now she’s on the heath, As she ought to be, Where the tender grass she seeth, Growing dawtily; The dry bent, the moor grass bare, With the sappy herbs are there, That make fat, and full, and fair, Her plump quarters all.

And those little wells are nigh, Where the water-cresses lie, Above wine she likes to try Their waves’ solacing; Of the rye-grass, twisted rows, On the rude hill side it grows, Than of rarest festal shows, Is she fonder far.

The choice increase of the earth Forms her joyous treat; The primrose, St John’s wort, Tops of gowans sweet, The new buds of the groves, The soft heath o’er which she roves, Are the tit-bits that she loves, With good cause too.

For speckled, spotted, rare, Tall, and fine, and fair, From such food before her there She grows sonsily; And it is still the surest mean To cure the weak ones and the lean, Who for any time have been Wasted, wan, and low.

Soon it would clothe their back With the garb which most they lack-- That rich fat, which they can pack Most commodiously.

She’s a flighty young hind When leaves ward her, Nearer her haunts where they bind The brae border: Lightsome and urbane Is her gay heart, free of stain, Tho’ rash head and somewhat vain-- Somewhat thoughtless.

Yet her form, so full of grace, She keeps hiding in a place, Where the green glen shows no trace Of a falling off; But she’s so healthy, and so clean-- So chaste where’er she’s seen-- Should you kiss her lips, I ween ’Twould not cause you shame.

Greatly prized is she, I know, By the stag with crested brow, Whose thundering hoofs around him throw Such a saucy sound; When with him she meets the view Red and yellow in her hue, And of virtues not a few That belong to her, Then too is she free of fear, And in speed without a peer, And the primest ear to hear In all Europe’s hers.

Oh! how sweetly they embrace, Young and fawning, When they gather to their place In the gloaming;

There, till silent night is by, Never terror comes them nigh, While beneath the bush they lie-- Their known haunt of old.

Let the wild herd seek their bed, Let them slumber, free of dread, Where yon mighty moor is spread, Broad and brawly; Where, with joy, I’ve often spied The sun colour their red hide, As they wandered in their pride O’er Ben Dorain.

The Hill-Water.

From the rim it trickles down Of the mountain’s granite crown Clear and cool; Keen and eager though it go Through your veins with lively flow, Yet it knoweth not to reign In the chambers of the brain With misrule;

Where dark water-cresses grow You will trace its quiet flow, With mossy border yellow, So mild, and soft, and mellow, In its pouring. With no shiny dregs to trouble The brightness of its bubble As it threads its silver way From the granite shoulders grey Of Ben Dorain.

Then down the sloping side It will slip with glassy slide Gently welling, Till it gather strength to leap, With a light and foamy sweep, To the corrie broad and deep Proudly swelling;

Then bends amid the boulders, ’Neath the shadow of the shoulders Of the Ben, Through a country rough and shaggy, So jaggy and so knaggy, Full of hummocks and of hunches, Full of stumps and tufts and bunches, Full of bushes and of rushes, In the glen,

Through rich green solitudes, And wildly hanging woods With blossom and with bell, In rich redundant swell, And the pride Of the mountain daisy there, And the forest everywhere, With the dress and with the air Of a bride.

Song for Macleod of Macleod.

[Sidenote: MARY MACLEOD]

Alone on the hill-top, Sadly and silently, Downward on Islay And over the sea-- I look and I wonder How time hath deceived me: A stranger in Muile[25] Who ne’er thought to be.

Ne’er thought it, my island! Where rests the deep dark shade Thy grand mossy mountains For ages have made-- God bless thee, and prosper! Thy chief of the sharp blade, All over these islands, His fame never fade!

Never fade it, Sir Norman! For well ’tis the right Of thy name to win credit In council or fight; By wisdom, by shrewdness, By spirit, by might, By manliness, courage, By daring, by sleight.

In council or fight, thy kindred Know these should be thine-- Branch of Lochlin’s wide-ruling And king-bearing line! And in Erin they know it-- Far over the brine: No Earl would in Albin Thy friendship decline.

[Sidenote: MARY MACLEOD]

Yes! the nobles of Erin Thy titles well know, To the honour and friendship Of high and of low. Born the deed-marks to follow, Thy father did show,-- That friend of the noble-- That manliest foe.

That friend of the noble-- From him art thou heir To virtues which Albin Was proud to declare: Crown’d the best of her chieftains Long, long may’st thou wear The blossoms paternal His broad branches bare!

O banner’d Clan Ruari! Whose loss is my woe, Of this chief who survives May I ne’er hear he’s low; But, darling of mortals! From him though I go, Long the shapeliest, comeliest Form may he show!

The shapeliest, comeliest, Faultless in bearing-- Cheerful, cordial, and kind, The red and white wearing, Well looks the blue-eyed chief; Blue, bright, and daring, His eye o’er his red cheek shines, Blue, bright, calmly daring.

His red cheek shines, Like hip on the brier-tree, ’Neath the choicest of curly hair Waving and free. A warm hearth, a drinking cup, Meet shall he see, And a choice of good armour Whoe’er visits thee.

Drinking-horns, trenchers bright, And arms old and new; Long, narrow-bladed swords, Cold, clear, and blue-- These are seen in thy mansion, With rifles and carbines, too; And hempen-strung long-bows, Of hard, healthy yew.

Long-bows and cross-bows, With strings that well wear; Arrows, with polish’d heads, In quivers full and fair, From the eagle’s wing feather’d, With silk fine and rare; And guns dear to purchase-- Long slender--are there.

My heart’s with thee, hero! May Mary’s son keep My stripling who loves The lone forest to sweep; Rejoicing to feel there The solitude deep Of the long moor and valley, And rough mountain steep.

The mountain steep searching And rough rocky chains; The old dogs he caresses, The young dogs he restrains: Then, soon from my chieftain’s spear The life-blood rains Of the red-hided deer or doe And the green heather stains.

[Sidenote: MARY MACLEOD]

Fall the red stag, the white-bellied doe; Then stand on the heather, Thy gentle companions, Well arm’d altogether, Well taught on the hunter’s craft, Well skill’d in the weather; They know the rough sea as well As the green heather!

III

MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY SCOTO-CELTIC

Monaltri.

[Sidenote: ANON.]

There’s a sound on the hill, Not of joy but of ailing; Dark-hair’d women mourn-- Beat their hands, with loud wailing.

They cry out, Ochon! For the young Monaltri, Who went to the hill; But home came not he.

Without snood, without plaid Katrina’s gone roaming. O Katrina, my dear! Homeward be coming.

Och! hear, on the castle Yon pretty bird singing, “Snoodless and plaidless, Her hands she is ringing.”

An Coineachan--A Highland Lullaby.

Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O, Goiridh òg O, Goiridh òg O; Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O, I’ve lost my darling baby O!

I left my darling lying here, A-lying here, a-lying here; I left my darling lying here, To go and gather blaeberries.

I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track, The otter’s track, the otter’s track; I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track, But ne’er a trace of baby O!

I found the track of the swan on the lake, The swan on the lake, the swan on the lake; I found the track of the swan on the lake, But not the track of baby O!

I found the track of the yellow fawn, The yellow fawn, the yellow fawn; I found the track of the yellow fawn, But could not trace my baby O!

I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist, The mountain mist, the mountain mist; I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist, But ne’er a trace of baby O!

A Boat Song.

[Sidenote: ANON.]

Ho, my bonnie boatie, Thou bonnie boatie mine! So trim and tight a boatie Was never launched on brine. Ho, my bonnie boatie, My praise is justly thine Above all bonnie boaties Were builded on Loch Fyne! _Hò mo bhàta laghach, ’S tu mo bhàta grinn; Hò mo bhàta laghach, ’S tu mo bhàta grinn. Hò mo bhàta laghach, ’S tu mo bhàta grinn: Mo bhàta boidheach laghach, Thogadh taobh Loch Fin._

To build thee up so firmly, I knew the stuff was good; Thy keel of stoutest elm-tree, Well fixed in oaken wood; Thy timbers ripely seasoned Of cleanest Norway pine Well cased in ruddy copper, To plough the deep were thine! _Hò mo bhàta, etc._

How lovely was my boatie At rest upon the shore, Before my bonnie boatie Had known wild ocean’s roar. Thy deck so smooth and stainless, With such fine bend thy rim, Thy seams that know no gaping, Thy masts so tall and trim. _Hò mo bhàta, etc._

And bonnie was my boatie Afloat upon the bay, When smooth as mirror round her The heaving ocean lay; While round the cradled boatie Light troops of plumy things To praise the bonnie boatie Made music with their wings. _Hò mo bhàta, etc._

How eager was my boatie To plough the swelling seas, When o’er the curling waters Full sharply blew the breeze! O, ’twas she that stood to windward, The first among her peers, When shrill the blasty music Came piping round her ears! _Hò mo bhàta, etc._

And where the sea came surging In mountains from the west, And reared the racing billow Its high and hissing crest; She turned her head so deftly, With skill so firmly shown, The billows they went their way The boatie went her own. _Hò mo bhàta, etc._

And when the sudden squall came Black swooping from the Ben, And white the foam was spinning Around thy topmast then, O never knew my boatie A thought of ugly dread, But dashed right through the billow, With the spray-shower round her head! _Hò mo bhàta, etc._

[Sidenote: ANON.]

Yet wert thou never headstrong To stand with forward will, When yielding was thy wisdom And caution was my skill. How neatly and how nimbly Thou turned thee to the wind, With thy leeside in the water And a swirling trail behind! _Hò mo bhàta, etc._

What though a lonely dwelling On barren shore I own, My kingdom is the blue wave, My boatie is my throne! I’ll never want a dainty dish To breakfast or to dine, While men may man my boatie And fish swim in Loch Fyne! _Hò mo bhàta laghach, ’S tu mo bhàta grinn. Hò mo bhàta laghach, ’S tu mo bhàta grinn. Hò mo bhàta laghach, ’S tu mo bhàta grinn: Mo bhàta boidheach laghach, Thogadh taobh Loch Fin._

The Old Soldier of the Gareloch Head.

[Sidenote: JOHN STUART BLACKIE]

I’ve wander’d east and west, And a soldier I hae been; The scars upon my breast Tell the wars that I have seen. But now I’m old and worn, And my locks are thinly spread, And I’m come to die in peace, By the Gareloch Head.

When I was young and strong, Oft a wandering I would go, By the rough shores of Loch Long, Up to lone Glencroe. But now I’m fain to rest, And my resting-place I’ve made, On the green and gentle bosom Of the Gareloch Head.

’Twas here my Jeanie grew, Like a lamb amid the flocks, With her eyes of bonnie blue, And her gowden locks. And here we often met, When with lightsome foot we sped, O’er the green and grassy knolls At the Gareloch Head.

’Twas here she pined and died-- O! the salt tear in my e’e Forbids my heart to hide What Jeanie was to me! ’Twas here my Jeanie died, And they scoop’d her lowly bed, ’Neath the green and grassy turf At the Gareloch Head.

[Sidenote: JOHN STUART BLACKIE]

Like a leaf in leafy June, From the leafy forest torn, She fell, and I’ll fall soon Like a sheaf of yellow corn. For I’m sere and weary now, And I soon shall make my bed With my Jeanie ’neath the turf At the Gareloch Head.

Flower of the World.

[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]

Wherever men sinned and wept, I wandered in my quest; At last in a Garden of God I saw the Flower of the World.

This Flower had human eyes, Its breath was the breath of the mouth; Sunlight and starlight came, And the Flower drank bliss from both.

Whatever was base and unclean, Whatever was sad and strange, Was piled around its roots; It drew its strength from the same.

Whatever was formless and base Pass’d into fineness and form; Whatever was lifeless and mean Grew into beautiful bloom.

Then I thought “O Flower of the World, Miraculous Blossom of things, Light as a faint wreath of snow Thou tremblest to fall in the wind:

“O beautiful Flower of the World, Fall not nor wither away; He is coming--He cannot be far-- The Lord of the Flow’rs and the Stars.”

And I cried, “O Spirit divine! That walkest the Garden unseen, Come hither, and bless, ere it dies, The beautiful Flower of the World.”

The Strange Country.

[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]

I have come from a mystical Land of Light To a Strange Country; The Land I have left is forgotten quite In the Land I see.

The round Earth rolls beneath my feet, And the still Stars glow, The murmuring Waters rise and retreat, The Winds come and go.

Sure as a heart-beat all things seem In this Strange Country; So sure, so still, in a dazzle of dream, All things flow free.

’Tis life, all life, be it pleasure or pain, In the Field and the Flood, In the beating Heart, in the burning Brain, In the Flesh and the Blood.

Deep as Death is the daily strife Of this Strange Country: All things thrill up till they blossom in Life, And flutter and flee.

Nothing is stranger than the rest, From the pole to the pole, The weed by the way, the eggs in the nest, The Flesh and the Soul.

Look in mine eyes, O Man I meet In this Strange Country! Lie in my arms, O Maiden sweet, With thy mouth kiss me!

Go by, O King, with thy crownèd brow And thy sceptred hand-- Thou art a straggler too, I vow, From the same strange Land.

O wondrous Faces that upstart In this Strange Country! O Souls, O Shades, that become a part Of my Soul and me!

What are ye working so fast and fleet, O Humankind? “We are building Cities for those whose feet Are coming behind;

“Our stay is short, we must fly again From this Strange Country; But others are growing, women and men, Eternally!”

Child, what art thou? and what am _I_? But a breaking wave! Rising and rolling on, we hie To the shore of the grave.

I have come from a mystical Land of Light To this Strange Country; This dawn I came, I shall go to-night, Ay me! ay me!

I hold my hand to my head and stand ’Neath the air’s blue arc, I try to remember the mystical Land, But all is dark.

And all around me swim Shapes like mine In this Strange Country;-- They break in the glamour of gleams divine, And they moan “Ay me!”

[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]

Like waves in the cold Moon’s silvern breath They gather and roll, Each crest of white is a birth or a death, Each sound is a Soul.

Oh, whose is the Eye that gleams so bright O’er this Strange Country? It draws us along with a chain of light, As the Moon the Sea!

The Dream of the World without Death.

Now, sitting by her side, worn out with weeping, Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision, Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice intoning:

Crying aloud, “The Master on His throne Openeth now the seventh seal of wonder, And beckoneth back the angel men name Death.

And at His feet the mighty Angel kneeleth, Breathing not; and the Lord doth look upon him, Saying, ’Thy wanderings on earth are ended.’”

And lo! the mighty Shadow sitteth idle Even at the silver gates of heaven, Drowsily looking in on quiet waters, And puts his silence among men no longer.

* * * * *

The world was very quiet. Men in traffic Cast looks over their shoulders; pallid seamen Shivered to walk upon the decks alone;

And women barred their doors with bars of iron, In the silence of the night; and at the sunrise Trembled behind the husbandmen afield.

I could not see a kirkyard near or far; I thirsted for a green grave, and my vision Was weary for the white gleam of a tombstone.

But hearkening dumbly, ever and anon I heard a cry out of a human dwelling, And felt the cold wind of a lost one’s going.

One struck a brother fiercely, and he fell, And faded in a darkness; and that other Tore his hair, and was afraid, and could not perish.

[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]

One struck his aged mother on the mouth, And she vanished with a gray grief from his hearthstone. One melted from her bairn, and on the ground

With sweet unconscious eyes the bairn lay smiling. And many made a weeping among mountains, And hid themselves in caverns, and were drunken.

I heard a voice from out the beauteous earth, Whose side rolled up from winter into summer, Crying, “I am grievous for my children.”

I heard a voice from out the hoary ocean, Crying, “Burial in the breast of me were better,-- Yea, burial in the salt flags and green crystals.”

I heard a voice from out the hollow ether, Saying, “The thing ye cursed hath been abolished-- Corruption, and decay, and dissolution!”

And the world shrieked, and the summer-time was bitter, And men and women feared the air behind them; And for lack of its green graves the world was hateful.

* * * * *

Now at the bottom of a snowy mountain I came upon a woman thin with sorrow, Whose voice was like the crying of a sea-gull:

Saying, “O Angel of the Lord, come hither, And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom, That I may close his eyelids and embrace him.

“I curse thee that I cannot look upon him! I curse thee that I know not he is sleeping! Yet know that he has vanished upon God!

“I laid my little girl upon a wood-bier, And very sweet she seemed, and near unto me; And slipping flowers into her shroud was comfort.

“I put my silver mother in the darkness, And kissed her, and was solaced by her kisses, And set a stone, to mark the place, above her.

“And green, green were their quiet sleeping places, So green that it was pleasant to remember That I and my tall man would sleep beside them.

“The closing of dead eyelids is not dreadful, For comfort comes upon us when we close them, And tears fall, and our sorrow grows familiar;

“And we can sit above them where they slumber, And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness, And know indeed that we are very near them.

“But to reach out empty arms is surely dreadful, And to feel the hollow empty world is awful, And bitter grow the silence and the distance.

“There is no space for grieving or for weeping; No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with, And nothing but a horror and a blankness!”

* * * * *

Now behold I saw a woman in a mud-hut Raking the white spent embers with her fingers, And fouling her bright hair with the white ashes.

Her mouth was very bitter with the ashes; Her eyes with dust were blinded; and her sorrow Sobbed in the throat of her like gurgling water.

And, all around, the voiceless hills were hoary, But red light scorched their edges; and above her There was a soundless trouble of the vapours.

[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]

“Whither, and O whither,” said the woman, “O Spirit of the Lord, hast Thou conveyed them, My little ones, my little son and daughter?

“For, lo! we wandered forth at early morning, And winds were blowing round us, and their mouths Blew rose-buds to the rose-buds, and their eyes

“Looked violets at the violets, and their hair Made sunshine in the sunshine, and their passing Left a pleasure in the dewy leaves behind them;

“And suddenly my little son looked upward, And his eyes were dried like dew-drops; and his going Was like a blow of fire upon my face.

“And my little son was gone. My little daughter Looked round me for him, clinging to my vesture; But the Lord had drawn him from me, and I knew it