Volume Vi Part 16 (1/2)
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 streams of the dark-rus.h.i.+ng Awe.
With his peak so high He cleaves the sky That smiles on his old gray 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, ”G.o.d 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 bl.u.s.ter, 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 gray crown.
And while torrents on torrents are pouring Down his sides with a wild, savage glee, And when louder the loud Awe is roaring, And the soft lake swells to a sea, He smiles through the storm, And his heart grows warm As he thinks how his streams feed the plains And the brave old Ben Grows young again, And swells with his l.u.s.ty veins.
For Cruachan is king of the mountains That gird in the lovely Loch Awe; Loch Etive is fed from his fountains, By the streams of the dark-rus.h.i.+ng Awe.
Ere Adam was made He rear'd 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.
THE BRAES OF MAR.
Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar, From you my feet must travel far, Thou high-peak'd steep-cliff'd Loch-na-Gar, Farewell, farewell for ever!
Thou lone green glen where I was born, Where free I stray'd in life's bright morn.
From thee my heart is rudely torn, And I shall see thee never!
The braes of Mar with heather glow, The healthful breezes o'er them blow, The gus.h.i.+ng torrents from them flow, That swell the rolling river.
Strong hills that nursed the brave and free, On banks of clear, swift-rus.h.i.+ng Dee, My widow'd eyne no more shall see Your birchen bowers for ever!
Farewell thou broad and bare Muicdhui Ye stout old pines of lone Glen Lui, Thou forest wide of Ballochbuie, Farewell, farewell for ever!
In you the rich may stalk the deer, Thou 'lt know the tread of prince and peer; But oh, the poor man's heart is drear To part from you for ever!
May G.o.d forgive our haughty lords, For whom our fathers drew their swords; No tear for us their pride affords, No bond of love they sever.
Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar, From bleak Ben Aon to Loch-na-Gar-- The friendless poor is banished far From your green glens for ever!
MY LOVES.
Name the leaves on all the trees, Name the waves on all the seas, Name the notes of all the groves-- Thus thou namest all my loves.
I do love the dark, the fair, Golden ringlets, raven hair, Eye that swims in sunny light, Glance that shoots like lightning bright.
I do love the stately dame And the sportive girl the same; Every changeful phase between Blooming cheek and brow serene.