All the echoes are in motion, All the sheilings ring with glee, Since, of peace, the paths of ocean Give the news a pa.s.sage free.

The birds the dash of oars was scaring-- Hush'd their note, but soon they raise, To their wonted branch repairing, Sweetest numbers on the sprays.

Seem the woods to dance a measure, Nodding as the notes inspire-- And their branches, as with pleasure, Add their music to the choir.

Of the streamlet, every murmur Sweetly swells the song of peace, Chanting, with each vocal charmer, Joys that bloom and wars that cease.

ALLAN M'DOUGALL.

Allan M'Dougall was born about the year 1750, in the district of Glencoe, Argyleshire. While employed as a tailor's apprentice, he had the misfortune to lose his eyesight; he afterwards earned his subsistence as a violinist. About the year 1790 he removed to Inverlochy, in the vicinity of Fort-William. Composing verses in the vernacular Gaelic, he contrived, by vending them, to add considerably to his finances. In preparing for publication a small volume of poetry, he was aided by the poet Evan Maclachlan,[15] who then was employed in the vicinity as a tutor. Latterly, M'Dougall became family bard to Colonel Ronaldson Macdonell of Glengarry, who provided for him on his estate.

His death took place in 1829. Shortly before this event, he republished his volume, adding several of his later compositions. His poetry is popular in the Highlands.

FOOTNOTES:

[15] See Minstrel, Vol. iv. p. 279.

THE SONG OF THE CARLINE.

O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding, O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding, O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in, And but a poor wittol to see.

If I go to fair, or feast, or waddin', The crone's in the sulks, for she 'd fain be gaddin', A wink to the girls sets her soul a-maddin', She 's a shame and sorrow to me.

If I stop at the hostel to buy me a gill, Or with a good fellow a moment sit still, Her fist it is clench'd, and is ready to kill, And the talk of the clachan are we.

She 's ailing for ever--my welcome is small, If I bring for her nonsense no cordial at all; Contention and strife, in the but and the hall, Are ready to greet my return.

Oh, did he come to us, our bondage to sever, I would cry, Be on Death benedictions for ever, I would jump it so high, and I 'd jig it so clever-- Short while would suffice me to mourn.

It was not her face, or dress, or riches, It was not a heart pierced through with st.i.tches-- 'Twas the glamour of more than a hundred witches That brought me a bargain like Janet.

O when, in the spring I return from the plough, And fain at the ingle would bask at its low, Her bauchle is off, and I 'm sure of a blow, Or a kick, if her foot is within it.

No thrift she is plying, no cakes she is dressing, No babe of her bosom in fondness caressing; Be up she, or down she, she 's ever distressing The core of my heart with her bother.

For a groat, for a groat with goodwill I would sell her, As the bark of the oak is the tan of her leather, And a bushel of coals would avail but to chill her, For a hag can you shew such another?

No tooth in her head, and a squint in her eye, At the dusk of the day, when her choler is high, The bairns, nay, the team I 've unhalter'd, they fly, And leave the reception for me.

O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding, O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding, O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in, And but a poor wittol to see!

KENNETH MACKENZIE.

Kenneth Mackenzie was born in 1758, at Caisteal Leanir, near Inverness.

By his parents, who were possessed of considerable means, he was well educated at the best schools in his native district. He became a seaman in his seventeenth year; and while on board composed verses as a relief to labour, and for the entertainment of his shipmates. In 1789 he quitted the seafaring life, and commenced to itinerate for subscribers to enable him to publish his poems. Through the influence of the Earl of Buchan, to whom he was recommended by his talents, he procured an officer's commission in the 78th Highland Regiment. He latterly accepted the situation of Postmaster in a provincial town in Ireland. The date of his death is unknown, but he is understood to have attained an advanced age. His habits were exemplary, and he was largely imbued with feelings of hospitality.

THE SONG OF THE KILT.

My darling is the philabeg, With scarlet hosen for the leg, And the spotted curtal coat so trig, And the head blue-bonneted.

The wimpled kilt be mine to wear, Confusion take the breechen gear, My limbs be fetterless and bare, And not like Saxon donnot-led.[16]

Oh, well I love the _eididh_[17] free, When it sends me bounding on the lea, Or up the brae so merrily, There's ne'er a darg that wonnet speed.

Give me the plaid, and on the hill I 'll watch my turn, a se'ennight's spell, And not a shiver from the chill Shall pierce my trusty coverlet.

And for the tartan's lively flame, In glen or clachan 'tis the same, Alike it pleases la.s.s and dame-- Unmatched its glories ever yet.

Be mine in Highland graith array'd, With weapon trim the glens to tread, And rise a stag of foremost head, Then let him tent my culiver.

And when I marshal to the feast, With deer-skin belt around my waist, And in its fold a dirk embraced, Then Roland match shall Oliver.

FOOTNOTES:

[16] Hen-pecked (Sc.), from _donned_, silly woman.

[17] Highland garb.

JOHN CAMPBELL.

John Campbell (Ian Ban), overseer on the estate of Shirvain, Argyleshire, was born about the year 1705, in the parish of Gla.s.sary, in the same county. He was entirely uneducated in youth, and never attained any knowledge of the English language. Becoming intimately acquainted with the Scriptures in his vernacular language, he paraphrased many pa.s.sages in harmonious verse; but, with the exception of fifteen hymns or sacred lays which were recovered from his recitation by the poet Duncan Kennedy, the whole have perished. The hymns of John Campbell retain much popularity among the Gael.

THE STORM BLAST.

Oh, say not 'tis the March wind! 'tis a fiercer blast that drives The clouds along the heavens, 'tis a feller sweep that rives The image of the sun from man; a scowling tempest hurls Our world into a chaos, and still it whirls and whirls.

It is the Boreal blast of sin, else all were meek and calm, And Creation would be singing still its old primeval psalm.

Woe for the leaf of human life! it flutters in the sere, And what avails its dance in air, with dust and down-come near?

That airy dance, what signifies the madness that inspires?

The king, the clown, alike is borne along, alike expires.

Come let us try another weird--the tempest let us chain; A bridle for the pa.s.sions ho! for giant pride a rein!

Thus quelleth grace the master-craft that was the cause of all The ruin that befell us in the whirlwind of the Fall.