SONG OF BEN CRUACHAN.

BEN CRUACHAN is king of the mountains,
That gird in the lovely Loch Awe,
Loch Etive is fed from his fountains,

By the stream of the dark-rushing Awe.
With his peak so high,

He cleaves the sky,

That smiles on his old grey crown,

While the mantle green,

On his shoulders seen,

In many a fold flows down.

He looks to the North, and he renders

A greeting to Nevis Ben,

And Nevis, in white snowy splendours,

Gives Cruachan greeting again.

O'er dread Glencoe

The greeting doth go,

And where Etive winds fair in the glen ;

And he hears the call,

In his steep North wall,

"God bless thee, old Cruachan Ben!"

When the North winds their forces muster,
And Ruin rides high on the storm,

All calm, in the midst of their bluster,
He stands, with his forehead enorm.

When block on block,

With thundering shock,

Comes hurtled confusedly down,

No whit recks He,

But laughs to shake free

The dust, from his old grey crown.

And while torrents on torrents are pouring
In a tempest of truculent glee,

When louder the loud Awe is roaring,

And the soft lake rides like a sea;

He smiles through the storm,

And his heart grows warm,

As he thinks how his streams feed the plains;

SONG OF BEN CRUACHAN.

And the brave old Ben

Grows young again,

And swells with enforced veins.

For Cruachan is king of the mountains,
That gird in the lovely Loch Awe,
Loch Etive is fed from his fountains,

By the stream of the dark-rushing Awe.
Ere Adam was made,

He reared his head

Sublime o'er the green-winding glen;

And, when flame wraps the sphere,

O'er Earth's ashes shall peer

The peak of the old Granite Ben!

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95

THE ASCENT OF CRUACHAN.

I.

DWELLERS in the sounding city,
Peoplers of the peaceful glen,
Come with me, the day is pleasant,
I would scale the tway-coned Ben.
Not with fly to lure the salmon,
Where the torrent scoops the glen
Makes me pleasure, but I dearly
Love to climb a peakèd Ben ;

Not with shot and mortal vollies
To bring moorcock down, or hen,
Is my glory, but I triumph,

Perched upon a cloud-capt Ben.
Come with me, the day is pleasant,

Soon the mist may veil again

All the glory of the mountains;

Up, and let us scale the Ben!

II.

See her rising proud before you,

In the beauty of the morn,

Queen of all the heights that grandly
Fence the storied land of Lorn;
Land of Campbells and MacDougalls,

Where full many a practised hand,
Nerved with high heroic purpose,

Poised the spear, and waved the brand.
I am ready; profits neither

Dull delay, nor puffing haste;
Let your foot be lightly booted,

Grasp your plaid about your waist;

Fill your pouch with lusty viands;

On the breezy top we dine;

Brim your flask with strength-inspiring

* This word is a good example of how the Scottish Celts take the bones out of their words by elision of medial or final consonants. Beatha is just the Latin vita; and usque, as is well known, is aqua; but the last element of the compound is pronounced as if written pai.

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