In morning pale, or evening dun, Was that of fair lamenting nun, Who once, in cloistered home forlorn, Languished for joys in youth forsworn ; Forth stepped he with uncourtly bow, The heron plume waved o'er his brow, His garb was blent with varied shade, And round him flowed his Highland plaid. But woe to Southland dame and knight In minstrel's tale who took delight. Though known the air, the song he sung Was in the barbarous Highland tongue : But tartaned chiefs in raptures hear The strains, the words, to them so dear. Thus run the bold portentous lay, As near as Southern tongue can say. The Abbot M'Kinnon. THE SEVENTEENTH BARD'S SONG. McKinnon's tall mast salutes the day, The pennons of silk in the breezes curl; But not one monk on holy ground Knows whither the Abbot M'Kinnon is bound. Well could that bark o'er the ocean glide, Though monks and friars alone must guide; For never man of other degree On board that sacred ship might be. On deck M Kinnon walked soft and slow; The haulers sung from the gilded prow; And away shot the bark on the wing of the wind, Over billow and bay like an image of mind. Aloft on the turret the monks appear, To see where the bark of their abbot would bear; And turn her prow to the north away, Then they turned their eyes to the female dome, Three times the night with aspect dull On the top of the spire, and the top of Dun-ye; But the wolf that nightly swam the sound, On the ravenous burrowing race to feed, The savage was scared from his charnel of death, O, wise was the founder, and well said he, No more the watch-fires gleam to the blast, A stranger youth to the isle they brought, In costly sacred robes bedight, And he lodged with the abbot by day and by night. His breast was graceful, and round withal, His leg was taper, his foot was small, And his tread so light that it flung no sound On listening ear or vault around. His eye was the morning's brightest ray, And his neck like the swan's in Iona bay; His teeth the ivory polished knew, And his lip like the morel when glossed with dew, While under his cowl's embroidered fold Were seen the curls of waving gold. This comely youth, of beauty so bright, When arm in arm they walked the isle, Young friars would beckon, and monks would smile ; But sires, in dread of sins unshriven, Would shake their heads and look up to heaven, |