"No, Highlandman! I will not fly My own beloved border; For poort.i.th dwells and famine pales In your Highlands of disorder.

"I will not wed a Gael-- His house is but a shieling; Oh, best unborn, than all forlorn Mid your crags to have my dwelling!"

"The house I call mine own house, A better was not born in; And land and sea will smile on thee, In the Highlands of thy scorning.

"I do not boast the wheaten wealth Of our glens and hills, my dearie!

But enow is health, and gra.s.s is wealth, In the land of mead and dairy.

"I 've store of kine, my darling, Nor any lilting sweeter Thine ear can know, than is their low, And the music of the bleater.

"I have no ship on ocean With merchant treasure sailing; But my tight boat, and trusty net, Whole loads of fish are trailing.

"And, for dress, is none, my beauty, Than the tartan plaiding warmer, For its colours bright, oh, what delight To see them deck my charmer!

"And ne'er was Highland welcome More hearty than thy greeting, Each day, the rein, and courteous swain, Thy pleasure will be meeting.

"And thou shalt wear the healthy hue That give the Highland breezes, And not a bird but will be heard To sing the song that pleases.

"No summer morn is blyther, With all its burst of glory, Than the heaving breast, that, uncaress'd, Pined--shall, caress'd, adore thee."

"Stay, Highlander! my heart, my hand, My vow and all I render, A Highland lay has won the day, And I will hie me yonder."

JOHN MACDONALD, JUN.

John Macdonald, author of the following song, is described in "Mackenzie's Collection" as having rented the farm of Scoraig, Lochbroom, and subsequently fixed his residence in the island of Lewis.

The present translation is from the pen of Mr D. Macpherson of London.

MARY, THE FAIR OF GLENSMOLE.

Sweet the rising mountains, red with heather bells, Sweet the bubbling fountains and the dewy dells, Sweet the snowy blossom of the th.o.r.n.y tree, Sweeter is young Mary of Glensmole to me.

Sweet, oh, sweet! with Mary o'er the wilds to stray, When Glensmole is dress'd in all the pride of May; And, when weary roving through the greenwood glade, Softly to recline beneath the birken shade.

Sweet the rising mountains, &c.

There to fix my gaze in raptures of delight, On her eyes of truth, of love, of life, of light; On her bosom, purer than the silver tide, Fairer than the _cana_ on the mountain side.

Sweet the rising mountains, &c.

What were all the sounds contrived by tuneful men, To the warbling wild notes of the sylvan glen?

Here the merry lark ascends on dewy wing, There the mellow mavis and the blackbird sing.

Sweet the rising mountains, &c.

What were all the splendour of the proud and great, To the simple pleasures of our green retreat?

From the crystal spring fresh vigour we inhale, Rosy health does court us on the mountain gale.

Sweet the rising mountains, &c.

Were I offer'd all the wealth that Albion yields, All her lofty mountains and her fruitful fields, With the countless riches of her subject seas, I would scorn the change for blisses such as these!

Sweet the rising mountains, red with heather bells, Sweet the bubbling fountains and the dewy dells, Sweet the snowy blossom of the th.o.r.n.y tree, Sweeter is young Mary of Glensmole to me.

EVAN M'COLL.[16]

FOOTNOTES:

[16] For Biographical Sketch, see p. 222.

THE CHILD OF PROMISE.

She died--as die the roses On the ruddy clouds of dawn, When the envious sun discloses His flame, and morning 's gone.

She died--like waves of sun-glow Fast by the shadows chased: She died--like heaven's rainbow By gushing showers effaced.

She died--like flakes appearing On the sh.o.r.e beside the sea; Thy snow as bright! but, nearing, The ground-swell broke on thee.

She died--as dies the glory Of music's sweetest swell: She died--as dies the story When the best is still to tell.

She died--as dies moon-beaming When scowls the rayless wave: She died--like sweetest dreaming, That hastens to its grave.

She died--and died she early: Heaven wearied for its own.

As the dipping sun, my Mary, Thy morning ray went down!

INDEX

TO THE

FIRST LINES OF THE SONGS.

A bonnie rose bloom'd wild and fair, vol. iv., 112.

Adieu--a long and last adieu, vol. iii., 207.