Lays of the Highlands and Islands :: :: University of Virginia Library

Farewell the city's dust and din,
The laboured pomp, the splendid rattle,
The war without, the fret within,
The ceaseless tug of selfish battle!
I'll toss no more on seas of strife:
But, drifting to a lonely shore,
I'll slip into a peaceful life
Beneath the shade of dark Ben More.

Green is Ben Tealladh's steepy side,
And soft the plash of waters sounding,
Where fair Loch Baa outspreads her pride,
With fringe of leafy trees surrounding:
There would I lie in careless ease,
Stretched on the green and grassy shore,
And nurse mild musings to the breeze
That pipes around the dark Ben More.

What though the dress of state be far—
Vain show to shallow thought appealing—
The crown, the coronet, and star—
The bait that lures the vulgar feeling!
Here, of all cumbrous trappings bare,
I wisely use my native store
Of happy thoughts and fancies fair
Beneath the shade of dark Ben More.

The brae, the billow, and the breeze,
Feed Meditation's quiet rapture;
Or from the scriptured rock at ease
I spell Creation's natal chapter.
The white mist folds its gentle wings
Around the green hill's summit hoar,
And all the power of growing things
Breathes fragrance down from huge Ben More.

And when I wish to rouse the brain
From Contemplation's dreamy pillow,
I strive with artful fly to gain
The speckled swimmer from the billow.

And in my rocking boat I sit,
With busy wand and lazy oar,
While shadows o'er the dark waves flit
From the broad brow of huge Ben More.

Or, where the stag climbs there climb I,
And where the noon-day cloud floats lightly,
Number the green isles as they lie
On the broad ocean glancing brightly;
And note Iona's sacred strand,
Where Erin's venturous saint of yore,
With prayerful heart and sleepless hand,
Tamed the wild Heathens of Ben More.

And when the black squall from the hills
Bristles the soft lake to a Fury,
And down the steep the gathered rills,
Swelled to a torrent, madly hurry;
Then round the cheerly blazing fire
Flies the quick jest and merry roar,
The louder for the tempest's ire
That frowns on us from dark Ben More.

And thus I woo my Autumn ease,
From intrigue far, and wordy squabble
Of men, who vainly fret to please
The whim of the unreasoned rabble.
From courts and kings and camps aloof,
Upon a mountain-girdled shore,
I lurk beneath a lowly roof
At the green base of dark Ben More.