GLENFINNAN.

WHEN Charlie lifted the standard

At Loch Shiel low in the glen,

His heart was lifted within him,
As he looked on the Nevis Ben.

And looked on the clans around him,
The Cameron men in their pride;
The men of Moidart and Knoydart,
And the brave Lochiel at his side.

And his blood rose proudly within him, And he thought as he stood in the glen,

Ben Nevis is monarch of mountains,

And Charlie is monarch of men!

But many a son of the mountain,
Whose face at noon was bright,
Felt the heart within him sinking,

As he lay in his plaid that night,

While the wind through the rifts of the valley,

Came piping so shrill and so clear,

And athwart the heart of the brave man,

Swept the black shadow of fear.

And a voice was heard in the wind without, And within in the heart of the wise,

And to the best friends of Charlie,

With bodeful pity it cries.

O Charlie, fair was the seeming,
And rare was the kilted show,
But Charlie, from daring and dreaming
No blossom to berries will grow!

THE MONUMENT

OF

PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD, AT GLENFINNAN,

LOCH SHIEL.

MISFORTUNED youth, if daring gave a claim,
And splendid hazard to a hero's glory,

Then history knew than thine no nobler story,
In the bright rolls of Greek and Roman fame.
For thou wert bold, and what thy fancy bred,

Of flattering fond conceit thy heart believed;
And they who followed where thy bright dream led,
Dashed into hopeless strife, and were deceived.

For thou lacked wisdom, and thy speed outran

Thy strength; strong trees take longest time to grow;
Wishes have wings; but in the state of man,
Deeds creep behind with limping pace and slow.
Thrice-hapless prince, for thy bold brilliant whim,
Thy friends must pay in woes that overbrim.

KINLOCH LEVEN.

As when a student toiling with annoy,

Through long dry tomes that tomb the dusty past, Lights on some gleam of nobleness at last,

He brightens, and his heart leaps up for joy;

So glad was I when from the cheerless hue

Of broad bleak moor, black loch, and swampy fen, Deep from the rich warm bosom of the glen, The green Kinloch stept brightly into view. Happy the chief who in such still retreat, Nurses the memory of long-centuried sires, Whose faithful people go with forward feet

Where his eye flashes, and his voice inspires, Who makes the hills his home, and reigns a king O'er willing hearts who love his sheltering wing.

KINLOCH MOIDART.

I.

AND this is Moidart! in this extreme nook

The Stuart landed, and the Pope has friends, And the old Faith that swears by church and book, Stands stiffly here, and neither breaks nor bends; Like some hoar father of a scattered race,

Vagrants of East and West, a homeless crew, He only holds the old familiar place,

And the men know him now who always knew. Not wise is he who vents an angry breath,

'Gainst souls that hang by Europe's hoary creed, And, for his legs are sound, deals wanton scaith

On the old crutch that helps the limper's speed; We all must cling to something in our need,

Else helmless tossed through darkness into death.