'Tis true, the gay attentive throng Admired, but loved not much, his song; Admired his wonderous voice and skill, His harp that thrilled or wept at will. The querulous keys and changing chime, Scarce could the Highland chieftain brook : Disdain seemed kindling in his look, That song so vapid, artful, terse, Should e'er compete with Scottish verse. But she, the fairest of the fair, Who sat enthroned in gilded chair, Well skilled in foreign minstrelsy And artful airs of Italy, Listened his song, with raptures wild, And on the happy minstrel smiled. Soon did the wily stranger's eye The notice most he wished espy, Then poured his numbers bold and free, Fired by the grace of majesty; And when his last notes died away, When sunk in well-feigned death he lay, Thinking his spirit on the wing, First of the dames she came along, Wept, sighed, and marvelled 'mid the throng. And when they raised him, it was said What more than gold or fame he prized Next in the list was Gardyn's name : The simpering cringe, and fawning look, Roused his proud heart, and fired his eye, That glowed with native dignity. Full sixty years the bard had seen, Where lines of silk and scarlet shone, Upon his harp, of wonderous frame, Fair emblem of Almighty love; A rose beneath a thistle bowed. Lightly upon the form he sprung, And his bold harp impetuous rung. Not one by one the chords he tried, But brushed them o'er from side to side, With either hand, so rapid, loud, Shook were the halls of Holyrood. Then in a mellow tone, and strong, He poured this wild and dreadful song. Young Kennedy. THE SECOND BARD'S SONG. I. When the gusts of October had rifled the thorn, There hushed by the tempest, baptized with the rain. II. Unheeded he shivered, unheeded he cried; Soon died on the breeze of the forest his moan. To his wailings, the weary wood-echo replied; E Oft gazed his young eye on the whirl of the storm, III. The nursling of misery, young Kennedy learned IV. His father a chief, for barbarity known, Proscribed, and by gallant Macdougal expelled; Where rolls the dark Teith through the valley of Down, The conqueror's menial he toiled in the field. |