Legends of the isles and Highland Gatherings :: :: University of Virginia Library

THE BURN OF ABERIACHAN.

I

I love, oh bonnie Aberiachan,
Thy wild and tumbling flood,
So gently down the rocks thou leapest,
So softly in thy linns thou sleepest,
Such silvery bubbles stud
Thy glancing bosom, and so green
Grows on thy back each birken bough,
I never saw a waterfall
More beautiful than thou.

II

'Tis true, unlike thy roaring neighbour,
Thy voice is sweet and low:
The mighty Foyers speak in thunder—
Thou whisperest thy birch-trees under,
To winds that o'er thee blow;
And after showers of spring-time rain,
When every burnie bounds along,
Thy voice, so musical and soft,
But swells into a song.

III

Yet more than Foyers, grand and solemn,
I love thy limpid face:
He awes us by his power and splendour—
Thou, like a maiden kind and tender,
Subduest by thy grace.
And in the sunny summer time,
From morn to night, I would rejoice
To lie upon thy flowery banks,
And listen to thy voice.

IV

Or underneath thy shelving summits,
Where tufted mosses grow—
Between the green o'erhanging birches,
Where all day long the lintie perches,
Mine idle limbs I'd throw:
And there I'd lie, until I sank
To a half-slumber, 'mid the trees,
Lull'd by thy confidential talk,
Or murmur of thy bees.

V

Or if I woke to dreams of fancy,
Beneath thy steepest fall
I'd sit, and weave some thoughtful treasure
Into the light and airy measure,
Of chant or madrigal:—

Or haply, in some genial hour,
Interpret into words the song
Thou singest down the mountain side,
When autumn floods are strong—

VI

Ev'n all the secret things thou breathest,
From thy translucent breast,
To the high mountains cold and hoary,
Or the calm loch that, girt with glory,
Receives thee from the west;—
Thy secret hymn of thankfulness
For all the beauty spread around,
Upon the loch, upon the hills,
Upon the pasture-ground.

VII

I know thee, bonnie Aberiachan!
I know that thou canst raise
The song of joy; and that thou flowest
With cheerful strength where'er thou goest,
Through all thy hidden ways.—
Let me be like thee, and rejoice,
That if no Foyers high and strong,
I still can lift a grateful voice,
And glorify in song;

VIII

That I can see a beauty round me,
From many an eye conceal'd;
That Nature, kind to those who love her,
Will still to them her face uncover,
And love for loving yield.
Let me, like thee, run cheerily on,
And sing my song, though none may hear;
Rewarded, if I please the few,
And keep a current clear.

Aberiachan, Loch Ness, Inverness-shire, 1844.