THE RUINED CLACHAN. AT Tobermory, o'er the hills I wandered, when the noon was sunny, My heart grew sad, my heart grew warm, 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 hooks his prey with glancing guineas, But leaves the blood within thy veins With frosted fountain feebly flowing. And curst be all who keep the Bens 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, 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, 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 Lie wreathed in lazy smiles, feeble to fling 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 |