 | Lays of the Highlands and Islands |  |
193
GENERAL.
BONNIE BLACKWATER.
Bonnie Blackwater,
'Neath the mountain's brow
Roaring and brawling and swirling with glee,
Round by the roots of the red rowan tree,
Where the plumes of the fern weave a chaplet for thee;
Whence comest thou?
'Neath the mountain's brow
Roaring and brawling and swirling with glee,
Round by the roots of the red rowan tree,
Where the plumes of the fern weave a chaplet for thee;
Whence comest thou?
I'm the Blackwater,
Born in the sky,
My mother the mist, and she fed me with dew;
In the little black tarn to stature I grew,
Which the men who love me call Loch Duhh;
Thence come I.
Born in the sky,
My mother the mist, and she fed me with dew;
In the little black tarn to stature I grew,
Which the men who love me call Loch Duhh;
Thence come I.
194
Bonnie Blackwater,
Whither goest thou?
By the old grey crag that nods o'er thee,
By the broad-browed Ben that slopes to thee,
By the purple brae, and the bonnie green lea,
Whither goest thou?
Whither goest thou?
By the old grey crag that nods o'er thee,
By the broad-browed Ben that slopes to thee,
By the purple brae, and the bonnie green lea,
Whither goest thou?
Thou Saxon stranger,
With mild blue eye,
By the crag, and the brae, and the bonnie green lea,
I wend, and I bend, and I swirl with glee
To the long blue loch that runs up from the sea;
Thither go I.
With mild blue eye,
By the crag, and the brae, and the bonnie green lea,
I wend, and I bend, and I swirl with glee
To the long blue loch that runs up from the sea;
Thither go I.
Bonnie Blackwater,
And is it then so?
And wilt thou be lost in the wide, wide sea,
Far from the crag, and the brae, and the lea,
Lost to the mountain, and hid from me
In ocean's flow?
And is it then so?
And wilt thou be lost in the wide, wide sea,
Far from the crag, and the brae, and the lea,
Lost to the mountain, and hid from me
In ocean's flow?
195
Thou mild-eyed stranger,
It is not so;
Up from the sea fine vapours rise,
Where the white cloud sails, and the light bird flies,
And they float me back to my native skies;
Thither I go.
It is not so;
Up from the sea fine vapours rise,
Where the white cloud sails, and the light bird flies,
And they float me back to my native skies;
Thither I go.
196
HIGHLAND INNS.
I.
The age is grown too vast: a monster planMust herald every sounding step it takes;
No will counts singly, and pretentious man
Is nothing'd by the huge machines he makes.
I love small things—a little bird that sings,
A little flower beside a wimpling brook,
A little child with light imaginings,
A little hour lent to a thoughtful book.
But of all little things I chiefly prize,
On a lone moor, a little Highland Inn,
Where, amid misty Bens and scowling skies,
And the unsleeping torrent's sleepy din,
A little maid attends with ready smiles
The foot-worn guest, and blazing faggots piles.
197
II.
More high-tier'd inns!—and shall I ever bePursued by London pomp and London flare?
Enter who will, this place is not for me,
Who love a lowly roof and simple fare.
Pile palaces for kings, where man to man
Makes of his wealth theatric proud display;
But in the face of Nature's Titan plan
These pompous toys should blush themselves away.
Give me—enough for comfort and for ease—
A low white house that peeps into the glen,
An open moor, a clump of sheltering trees,
And a few kindly words from kindly men:
These give—and, that the hours may smoothly pass,
A genial friend, and a well-tempered glass.
198
THE HIGHLAND MINISTER.
When London brewers track the Scottish deer,And lords breed sheep, who once commanded men,
Whom do the scanty peoplers of the glen
With faithful love, and service true revere?
I know him well: while lairds beyond the sea
Scatter their gold, and factors rack the glen,
He stands a messenger from God to men,
Sole priest and king, sole friend and father he.
Such ministry God's gospel gave, when first
Love struck the bonds from Sin's enthrallèd slaves,
As here some wreck of kindly care it saves
From grasping hands and hearts with hardness curst.
“Not yours, but you,” the great Apostle said;
Now gain is good, and all things are a trade!
199
THE HIGHLAND MANSE.
If men were free to take, and wise to useThe fortunes richly strewn by kindly chance,
Then kings and mighty potentates might choose
To live and die lords of a Highland manse.
For why? Though that which spurs the forward mind
Be wanting here, the high-perched glittering prize,
The bliss that chiefly suits the human kind
Within this bounded compass largely lies—
The healthful change of labour and of ease,
The sober inspiration to do good,
The green seclusion, and the stirring breeze,
The working hand leagued with the thoughtful mood;
These things, undreamt by feverish-striving men,
The wise priest knows who rules a Highland glen.
200
THE LADY WHO LOVES THE HIGHLANDS.
I.
Adventurous men I've known the boldest bornIn brawny Britain or in fiery France,
To face the pestilence, scale the Matterhorn,
Or through the battle's iron hail to dance.
But a frail woman with so stout a heart
To brave the billows and explore the glens
I never knew, as she who claims a part
In my small song piped in the land of Bens.
She on the wings of sacred duty flies
With shepherd's care to bless untended flocks;
And, like an angel missioned from the skies,
They greet her coming from the old grey rocks:
Poor island-dwellers by the lonely sea,
Whom all forget but God in heaven and she!
201
II.
Who loves the Highlands?—many love to shootThe dun-plumed grouse on the broad-shouldered Ben;
And 'tis a kingly sport will none dispute
To track the red-deer through the treeless glen.
But I know one who loves the Highlands more
Than all who start the grouse or watch the deer,
The first to light on lone unfriended shore
With helping hand, and words of kindly cheer;
A woman, but whom manful purpose mails,
Of English blood, but through the Celtic seas
With torch of truth in venturous skiff she sails
From isle to isle, not studious of her ease.
Brave maid! thee following where Columba trod
The angels know who keep the book of God.
202
THE BOULDER.
Thou huge grey stone upon the heath,
With lichens crusted well,
I marvel much, if thou found breath,
What story thou would'st tell.
Oft wandering o'er the birch-grown hill,
To hear the wild winds moan,
I wonder still what chance or skill
Hath pitched thee here alone.
With lichens crusted well,
I marvel much, if thou found breath,
What story thou would'st tell.
Oft wandering o'er the birch-grown hill,
To hear the wild winds moan,
I wonder still what chance or skill
Hath pitched thee here alone.
Where wert thou when Sire Adam first
Drew his mischanceful breath,
And in the bowers of bliss was cursed
With everlasting death,
Then when the damned fiend, who loves
The mask of snake and toad,
Crept into Paradisian groves,
And stole Eve's heart from God?
Drew his mischanceful breath,
And in the bowers of bliss was cursed
With everlasting death,
Then when the damned fiend, who loves
The mask of snake and toad,
Crept into Paradisian groves,
And stole Eve's heart from God?
203
Thee in some seaward glen, I ween,
On sharp Loffodin's shore,
In frozen folds of gleaming green
The giant glacier bore.
Then down the steep it harshly slid,
Till, loosen'd from the high land,
With wrench enorm its compact form
Was launch'd, a floating island,
On sharp Loffodin's shore,
In frozen folds of gleaming green
The giant glacier bore.
Then down the steep it harshly slid,
Till, loosen'd from the high land,
With wrench enorm its compact form
Was launch'd, a floating island,
Into the Arctic deep. And thou,
In its stark bosom buried,
Through seas which huge Leviathans plough,
To this South strand wert hurried.
Then, from its cold close gripe unbound
By summer's permeant breath,
Thy wandering bulk a station found
On this wide sandy heath.
In its stark bosom buried,
Through seas which huge Leviathans plough,
To this South strand wert hurried.
Then, from its cold close gripe unbound
By summer's permeant breath,
Thy wandering bulk a station found
On this wide sandy heath.
And here thy watch hath been, God knows
How long, and what a strange
Masque of Time's motley-shifting shows
Hath known thee without change.
Seas thou hast seen to dry land turned,
And dry land turned to seas,
And fiery cones that wildly burned,
Where flocks now feed at ease.
How long, and what a strange
Masque of Time's motley-shifting shows
Hath known thee without change.
204
And dry land turned to seas,
And fiery cones that wildly burned,
Where flocks now feed at ease.
By thee the huge-limbed breathing things,
Crude Earth's portentous race,
Passed, and long lizard-shapes with wings
Swept o'er thy weathered face.
To thee first came man's jaded limb
From Eastern Babel far;
Around thee rose the Druid's hymn,
And the cry of Celtic war.
Crude Earth's portentous race,
Passed, and long lizard-shapes with wings
Swept o'er thy weathered face.
To thee first came man's jaded limb
From Eastern Babel far;
Around thee rose the Druid's hymn,
And the cry of Celtic war.
By thee the Roman soldier made
The mountain-cleaving road,
The Saxon boor beside thee strayed,
The lordly Norman strode.
The Papal monk thy measure took;
The proud priest triple-crowned
Mumbled a blessing from his book,
And claimed the holy ground.
The mountain-cleaving road,
The Saxon boor beside thee strayed,
The lordly Norman strode.
The Papal monk thy measure took;
The proud priest triple-crowned
Mumbled a blessing from his book,
And claimed the holy ground.
205
By thee the insolent Edward passed,
When mad with eager greed,
A bridge of law-spun lies he cast
Across the Scottish Tweed.
And thou that vengeful day didst know,
When strong with righteous scorn
Young Freedom rose, and smote the foe,
At glorious Bannockburn.
When mad with eager greed,
A bridge of law-spun lies he cast
Across the Scottish Tweed.
And thou that vengeful day didst know,
When strong with righteous scorn
Young Freedom rose, and smote the foe,
At glorious Bannockburn.
Thou saw'st, when 'neath thy hoary shade
Upon the old brown sod
The plaided preacher sate, and made
His fervent prayer to God,
What time men tried by courtly art
To trim, and craft of kings,
The faith that soars from a people's heart,
And flaps untutored wings.
Upon the old brown sod
The plaided preacher sate, and made
His fervent prayer to God,
What time men tried by courtly art
To trim, and craft of kings,
The faith that soars from a people's heart,
And flaps untutored wings.
Thou saw'st, from out old unkempt bowers,
Huge people cities rise,
And merchant kings with stately towers
Invade the troubled skies.
Thick rose the giant vents, that mar
Heaven's lustrous blue domain,
And whirling wheel and hissing car
Disturb thy silent reign.
Huge people cities rise,
And merchant kings with stately towers
Invade the troubled skies.
206
Heaven's lustrous blue domain,
And whirling wheel and hissing car
Disturb thy silent reign.
And thou—but what thou yet may'st see
The pious Muse withholds;
The curious art be far from me,
To unroll Time's fateful folds.
When Earth, that wheels on viewless wing,
Is twenty centuries older,
Some bard, where Scotland was, shall sing
The story of the Boulder.
The pious Muse withholds;
The curious art be far from me,
To unroll Time's fateful folds.
When Earth, that wheels on viewless wing,
Is twenty centuries older,
Some bard, where Scotland was, shall sing
The story of the Boulder.
207
SOLITUDE.
Alone, alone, and all alone!
What could more lonely be?
'Neath the mist-wove pall of a dull grey night,
On a treeless shore and bare;
Nor wind's low sigh,
Nor sea-birds' cry,
Stirring the stagnant air;
And only one dim beacon-light
Far-twinkling o'er the sea.
What could more lonely be?
'Neath the mist-wove pall of a dull grey night,
On a treeless shore and bare;
Nor wind's low sigh,
Nor sea-birds' cry,
Stirring the stagnant air;
And only one dim beacon-light
Far-twinkling o'er the sea.
And the wave that raved but yesternight,
So blustering and so wild,
Is smooth and faint, and crestless quite,
And breaks on the sand as faint and slight
As the whispers of a child.
Alone, alone, and all alone,
By the sad and silent sea,
On one far-twinkling beacon-light
I look out through the dull grey night,
And only God with me!
So blustering and so wild,
Is smooth and faint, and crestless quite,
And breaks on the sand as faint and slight
As the whispers of a child.
Alone, alone, and all alone,
208
On one far-twinkling beacon-light
I look out through the dull grey night,
And only God with me!
209
THE SONG OF THE HIGHLAND RIVER.
Dew-fed am I
With drops from the sky,
Where the white cloud rests on the old grey hill;
Slowly I creep
Down the precipice steep,
Where the snow through the summer lies freezingly still;
Where the wreck of the storm
Lies shattered enorm,
I steal 'neath the stone with a tremulous rill;
My low-trickling flow
You may hear, as I go
Down the sharp-furrowed brow of the old grey hill,
Or drink from my well,
Grass-grown where I dwell,
In 'the clear granite cell of the old grey hill.
With drops from the sky,
Where the white cloud rests on the old grey hill;
Slowly I creep
Down the precipice steep,
Where the snow through the summer lies freezingly still;
Where the wreck of the storm
Lies shattered enorm,
I steal 'neath the stone with a tremulous rill;
My low-trickling flow
You may hear, as I go
Down the sharp-furrowed brow of the old grey hill,
Or drink from my well,
Grass-grown where I dwell,
In 'the clear granite cell of the old grey hill.
In the hollow of the hill
With my waters I fill
The little black tarn where the thin mist floats;
The deep old moss
Slow-oozing I cross,
Where the lapwing cries with its long shrill notes
Then fiercely I rush to the sharp granite edge,
And leap with a bound o'er the old grey ledge;
Like snow in the gale,
I drive down the vale,
Lashing the rock with my foamy flail;
Where the black crags frown,
I pour sheer down,
Into the caldron boiling and brown;
Whirling and eddying there I lie,
Where the old hawk wheels, and the blast howls by.
With my waters I fill
The little black tarn where the thin mist floats;
210
Slow-oozing I cross,
Where the lapwing cries with its long shrill notes
Then fiercely I rush to the sharp granite edge,
And leap with a bound o'er the old grey ledge;
Like snow in the gale,
I drive down the vale,
Lashing the rock with my foamy flail;
Where the black crags frown,
I pour sheer down,
Into the caldron boiling and brown;
Whirling and eddying there I lie,
Where the old hawk wheels, and the blast howls by.
From the treeless brae
All green and grey,
To the wooded ravine I wind my way,
Dashing, and foaming, and leaping with glee,
The child of the mountain wild and free.
Under the crag where the stone crop grows,
Fringing with gold my shelvy bed,
Where over my head
Its fruitage of red,
The rock-rooted rowan tree blushfully shows,
I wind, till I find
A way to my mind,
While hazel, and oak, and the light ash tree,
Weave a green awning of leafage for me.
Fitfully, fitfully, on I go,
Leaping, or running, or winding slow,
Till I come to the linn where my waters rush,
Eagerly down with a broad-faced gush,
Foamingly, foamingly, white as the snow,
On to the soft green turf below;
Where I sleep with the lake as it sleeps in the glen,
'Neath the far-stretching base of the high-peaked Ben.
All green and grey,
To the wooded ravine I wind my way,
Dashing, and foaming, and leaping with glee,
The child of the mountain wild and free.
Under the crag where the stone crop grows,
Fringing with gold my shelvy bed,
Where over my head
Its fruitage of red,
211
I wind, till I find
A way to my mind,
While hazel, and oak, and the light ash tree,
Weave a green awning of leafage for me.
Fitfully, fitfully, on I go,
Leaping, or running, or winding slow,
Till I come to the linn where my waters rush,
Eagerly down with a broad-faced gush,
Foamingly, foamingly, white as the snow,
On to the soft green turf below;
Where I sleep with the lake as it sleeps in the glen,
'Neath the far-stretching base of the high-peaked Ben.
Slowly and smoothly my winding I make,
Round the dark-wooded islets that stud the clear lake;
The green hills sleep
With their beauty in me,
Their shadows the light clouds
Fling as they flee,
While in my pure waters pictured I glass
The light-plumed birches that nod as I pass.
Round the dark-wooded islets that stud the clear lake;
The green hills sleep
With their beauty in me,
Their shadows the light clouds
Fling as they flee,
While in my pure waters pictured I glass
The light-plumed birches that nod as I pass.
212
Slowly and silently on I wend,
With many a bay and many a bend,
Luminous seen like a silvery line,
Shimmering bright in the fair sunshine,
Till I come to the pass, where the steep red scaur
Gleams like a watch-fire seen from afar,
Then out I ride,
With a full-rolling pride,
While my floods like the amber shine;
Where the salmon rejoice
To hear my voice,
And the angler trims his line.
With many a bay and many a bend,
Luminous seen like a silvery line,
Shimmering bright in the fair sunshine,
Till I come to the pass, where the steep red scaur
Gleams like a watch-fire seen from afar,
Then out I ride,
With a full-rolling pride,
While my floods like the amber shine;
Where the salmon rejoice
To hear my voice,
And the angler trims his line.
Gentlier now, with a kindly slope,
The green hills lie to the bright blue cope,
And wider the patches of green are spread,
Which Time hath won from my shifting bed.
And many a broad and sunny spot,
Where my waters wend,
With a larger bend,
Shows the white-fronted brown-thatched cot,
Where the labouring man with sweatful care,
Hath trimmed him a garden green and fair,
From the wreck of the granite bare.
The green hills lie to the bright blue cope,
And wider the patches of green are spread,
Which Time hath won from my shifting bed.
And many a broad and sunny spot,
Where my waters wend,
With a larger bend,
Shows the white-fronted brown-thatched cot,
Where the labouring man with sweatful care,
213
From the wreck of the granite bare.
And many a hamlet, peopled well
With hard-faced workmen, smokes from the dell;
Cunning to work with axe and hammer,
Cunning to sheer the fleecy flock,
Cunning, with blast and nitrous clamour,
To split the useful rock.
And many a rural church far-seen
Stands on the knolls of grassy green,
Where my swirling current flows;
And, with its spire high-pointed, shows
How man, that treads the earthy sod,
Claims fatherhood from God.
With hard-faced workmen, smokes from the dell;
Cunning to work with axe and hammer,
Cunning to sheer the fleecy flock,
Cunning, with blast and nitrous clamour,
To split the useful rock.
And many a rural church far-seen
Stands on the knolls of grassy green,
Where my swirling current flows;
And, with its spire high-pointed, shows
How man, that treads the earthy sod,
Claims fatherhood from God.
Now broader and broader my rich bed grows,
And deeper and deeper my full tide flows;
And, while onward I sail,
Like a ship to the gale,
With my big flood rolling amain,
The glen spreads out to a leafy vale,
And the vale spreads out to a plain.
And many a princely mansion good
Looks from the old thick-tufted wood,
On my clear far-winding line.
And many a farm, with acres spread,
Slopes gently to my fattening bed,
The farm, whose broad and portly lord
Loads with rich fare the liberal board,
And quaffs the ruby wine.
And richly, richly, round and round,
With green and golden pride, the ground
Swells undulant, gardened o'er and o'er
With beauty's bloom, and plenty's store;
And many a sheaf of yellow corn,
The farmer's healthful gain,
Up my soft-shaded banks is borne,
On the huge slow-labouring wain.
And many a yard well stacked with hay,
And many a dairy's trim array,
And many a high-piled barn I see,
And many a dance of rustic glee,
Where sweats the jocund swain.
And many a town thick-sown with steeples
With various wealth my border peoples,
And studs my sweeping line;
While frequent the bridge of well-hewn stone,
Arch after arch, is proudly thrown,
My busy banks to join;
Thus through the plain I wend my fruitful way,
To meet the sounding sea, and swell the briny bay.
And deeper and deeper my full tide flows;
And, while onward I sail,
Like a ship to the gale,
With my big flood rolling amain,
The glen spreads out to a leafy vale,
And the vale spreads out to a plain.
214
Looks from the old thick-tufted wood,
On my clear far-winding line.
And many a farm, with acres spread,
Slopes gently to my fattening bed,
The farm, whose broad and portly lord
Loads with rich fare the liberal board,
And quaffs the ruby wine.
And richly, richly, round and round,
With green and golden pride, the ground
Swells undulant, gardened o'er and o'er
With beauty's bloom, and plenty's store;
And many a sheaf of yellow corn,
The farmer's healthful gain,
Up my soft-shaded banks is borne,
On the huge slow-labouring wain.
And many a yard well stacked with hay,
And many a dairy's trim array,
And many a high-piled barn I see,
And many a dance of rustic glee,
Where sweats the jocund swain.
And many a town thick-sown with steeples
With various wealth my border peoples,
215
While frequent the bridge of well-hewn stone,
Arch after arch, is proudly thrown,
My busy banks to join;
Thus through the plain I wend my fruitful way,
To meet the sounding sea, and swell the briny bay.
The briny bay! how fair it lies
Beneath the azure skies!
With its wide sweep of pebbly shore,
And the low far-murmuring roar
Of wave and wavelet sparkling bright
With a thousand points in the dancing light.
There round the promontory's base,
Bluff bulwark of the bay,
Free ranging with a lordly grace,
I wind my surging way,
To mingle with the main. Where wide
This way and that my turbid tide
Is spread, behold in pennoned pride
Strong Neptune's white-winged couriers ride!
From east to west,
Upon my breast,
Rich bales they bear, to swell the stores
Of merchant kings, who on my shores
Pile their proud palaces. Busily plying,
And with fleet winds in fleetness vying,
The fire-fed steam-consuming boat
Casts from its high-reared iron throat,
The many-volumed smoke, while heaves
Beneath the boiling track it leaves
My furrowed flood. Line upon line,
The ships that crossed the fretful brine,
Far-stretching o'er my spacious strand,
A myriad-masted army stand;
While many a pier, and many a mole,
Breaks my strong current as I roll;
And block and bolt, and bar and chain,
With giant-gates my flood detain,
To serve the seaman's need. Around,
Thick as a forest, from the ground
Street upon street, the city rears
Its pride, in strangely-clambering tiers
Of various-fashioned stone, while domes,
And spires, and pinnacles, and towers,
And wealthy tradesmen's terraced bowers
Nod o'er my troubled bed,
And Labour's many-chambered homes,
In straggling vastness, spread
Their smoking lines. Thus, where I flow,
The stream of being, growing as I grow,
Floods to a tumult, and much-labouring man,
Who, with my small beginnings, small began,
Ends where I end, and crowns his swelling plan.
Beneath the azure skies!
With its wide sweep of pebbly shore,
And the low far-murmuring roar
Of wave and wavelet sparkling bright
With a thousand points in the dancing light.
There round the promontory's base,
Bluff bulwark of the bay,
Free ranging with a lordly grace,
I wind my surging way,
To mingle with the main. Where wide
This way and that my turbid tide
Is spread, behold in pennoned pride
Strong Neptune's white-winged couriers ride!
From east to west,
Upon my breast,
216
Of merchant kings, who on my shores
Pile their proud palaces. Busily plying,
And with fleet winds in fleetness vying,
The fire-fed steam-consuming boat
Casts from its high-reared iron throat,
The many-volumed smoke, while heaves
Beneath the boiling track it leaves
My furrowed flood. Line upon line,
The ships that crossed the fretful brine,
Far-stretching o'er my spacious strand,
A myriad-masted army stand;
While many a pier, and many a mole,
Breaks my strong current as I roll;
And block and bolt, and bar and chain,
With giant-gates my flood detain,
To serve the seaman's need. Around,
Thick as a forest, from the ground
Street upon street, the city rears
Its pride, in strangely-clambering tiers
Of various-fashioned stone, while domes,
And spires, and pinnacles, and towers,
And wealthy tradesmen's terraced bowers
217
And Labour's many-chambered homes,
In straggling vastness, spread
Their smoking lines. Thus, where I flow,
The stream of being, growing as I grow,
Floods to a tumult, and much-labouring man,
Who, with my small beginnings, small began,
Ends where I end, and crowns his swelling plan.
| Lays of the Highlands and Islands | |