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THE RUINED CLACHAN.

AT Tobermory, o'er the hills

I wandered, when the noon was sunny,
Through oozy bogs and trickling rills,
And hum of bees that roamed for honey.
I wound my way through ferny maze,
A light and random path pursuing,
Till in the glen there met my gaze
A clump of cottages in ruin.

My heart grew sad, my heart grew warm,
The tears adown my cheeks came rolling,
And in my breast there rose a storm
That kicked at reason's cold controlling.
Full in my thought there flashed to view
The rare old life that here had vanished,
The lusty thew, the heart so true,

The love, the joy, the manhood banished!

Who drove them hence, O who was he

Of hoarded rents a stern exactor,

A titled loon of high degree,

Close-fisted laird, or hard-faced factor?

I

may not know but I disburse

My bile on him, that ruthless actor,

And curse him with a hearty curse,

Close-fisted laird or hard-faced factor.

Yes, cursed be he, and cursed be all
Who live for gold and counted pennies,
Selling their souls to Satan's thrall,

Who hooks his prey with glancing guineas,
Who cheats the eye with glittering gains,
The painted pomp of life bestowing,

But leaves the blood within thy veins

With frosted fountain feebly flowing.

And curst be all who keep the Bens
For sheep and antlered rangers only,
And leave the green and sheltered glens
All houseless, tenantless, and lonely;

E

Who love no men, who rear no race

To serve their country, when we need them,

Who for the land that knows their face

Will draw the sacred sword of freedom!

If I had land, as I have none,

The people round me I would gather,

[blocks in formation]

And every lass should call me father;

And to each kilted cotter I

Would say, with word so kind and clannish

God bless you all to multiply,

And Earth with Celtic seed replenish!

But I'm just what I am; and so

Will cease to dream of what I might be

From right beginning all did flow,

And in the end all things will right be.

A human tear is all I can,

A human curse, though scarcely civil,
A tear for all the oppressed of man,
A curse for all that serve the devil!

SKYE.

BLAVEN.

BLOW wildly blasts round Blaven's jagged crown,

And through sheer-yawning rifts

Whistle and shriek, while the swift Cloud swoops down,

And like a wild beast lifts

Wrathful his sweeping tail! Scowl, Blaven, scowl

Black as black hell, and, while

Deep in the cauldroned corry tempests growl,

With thy gigantic pile

Stand firm, and harshly seamed with gritty scars

Thy stern-indented face,

Display, defiant of all windy wars

With savage grim grimace,

While countless winters roll. I can rejoice

Where battling blasts increase,

And from the harsh bray of the tempest's voice

Can syllable sweet peace.

To-morrow, when the storm's hot puffing fit

Hath blown itself to rest,

A little child leading a lamb might sit

Harmless upon thy crest.

Oft have I seen Coruisk's dark-rounded lake,

That, like a hell-pot lies

Brewing commotion, sudden radiance take

From the discurtained skies,

And like a cushioned and a cradled thing
With beauty dimpled o'er,

Lie wreathed in lazy smiles, feeble to fling
One ripple to the shore.

There is a soul in Nature that delights

In peace, and peaceful moods,

Which still she finds from every storm that smites The Bens, or shakes the woods;

A Sabbath tune she hath which most she loves,

And to herself doth sing

Secure, behind the crash of rended groves

And clang of winter's wing.

Such Sabbath tune the wise man's heart doth know

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