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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?

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.

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?

By

Thou Saxon stranger,

With mild blue eye,

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?

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.

HIGHLAND INNS.

I.

THE age is grown too vast a monster plan

Must 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.

HIGHLAND INNS.

II.

More high-tier'd inns!—and shall I ever be

Pursued 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.

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