Yes, I will sing the Lion-King o'er all the tribes victorious, To living thing may not concede thy meed and actions glorious; How oft thy n.o.ble head has woke thy valiant men to battle, As panic o'er their spirit broke, and rued the foe their mettle!

Is there, thy praise to underrate, in very thought presuming, O'er crested chieftainry[120] thy state, O thou, of right a.s.suming!

I see thee, on thy silken flag, in rampant[121] glory streaming, As life inspired their firmness thy planted hind feet seeming.

The standard tree is proud of thee, its lofty sides embracing, Anon, unfolding, to give forth thy grandeur airy s.p.a.ce in.

A following of the trustiest are cl.u.s.ter'd by thy side, And woe, their flaming visages of crimson, who shall bide?

The heather and the blossom are pledges of their faith, And the foe that shall a.s.sail them, is destined to the death.

Was not a dearth of mettle among thy native kind?

They were foremost in the battle, nor in the chase behind.

Their arms of fire wreak'd out their ire, their shields emboss'd with gold, And the thrusting of their venom'd points upon the foemen told; O deep and large was every gash that mark'd their manly vigour, And irresistible the flash that lighten'd round their trigger; And woe, when play'd the dark blue blade, the thick back'd sharp Ferrara, Though plied its might by stripling hand, it cut into the marrow.

Clan Colla,[122] let them have their due, thy true and gallant following, Strength, kindness, grace, and clannishness, their lofty spirit hallowing.

Hot is their ire as flames aspire, the whirling March winds fanning them, Yet search their hearts, no blemish'd parts are found all eyes though scanning them.

They rush elate to stern debate, the battle call has never Found tardy cheer or craven fear, or grudge the prey to sever.

Ah, fell their wrath! The dance[123] of death sends legs and arms a flying, And thick the life blood's reek ascends of the downfallen and the dying.

Clandonuil, still my darling theme, is the prime of every clan, How oft the heady war in, has it chased where thousands ran.

O ready, bold, and venom full, these native warriors brave, Like adders coiling on the hill, they dart with stinging glaive; Nor wants their course the speed, the force, --nor wants their gallant stature, This of the rock, that of the flock that skim along the water, Like whistle shriek the blows they strike, as the torrent of the fell, So fierce they gush--the moor flames' rush their ardour symbols well.

Clandonuil's[124] root when crown each shoot of sapling, branch, and stem, What forest fair shall e'er compare in stately pride with them?

Their gathering might, what legion wight, in rivalry has dared; Or to ravish from their Lion's face a bristle of his beard?

What limbs were wrench'd, what furrows drench'd, in that cloud burst of steel, That atoned the provocation, and smoked from head to heel, While cry and shriek of terror break the field of strife along, And stranger[125] notes are wailing the slaughter'd heaps among!

Where from the kingdom's breadth and length might other muster gather, So flush in spirit, firm in strength, the stress of arms to weather; Steel to the core, that evermore to expectation true, Like gallant deer-hounds from the slip, or like an arrow flew, Where deathful strife was calling, and sworded files were closed Was sapping breach the wall in of the ranks that stood opposed, And thirsty brands were hot for blood, and quivering to be on, And with the whistle of the blade was sounding many a groan.

O from the sides of Albyn, full thousands would be proud, The natives of her mountains gray, around the tree to crowd, Where stream the colours flying, and frown the features grim, Of your emblem lion with his staunch and crimson[126] limb.

Up, up, be bold, quick be unrolled, the gathering of your levy,[127]

Let every step bound forth a leap, and every hand be heavy; The furnace of the melee where burn your swords the best, Eschew not, to the rally where blaze your streamers, haste!

That silken sheet, by death strokes fleet, and strong defenders manned,-- Dismays the flutter of its leaves the chosen of the land.

[119] The clan badge is a tuft of heather.

[120] The Macdonalds claimed the right wing in battle.

[121] A lion rampant is their cognizance; gules.

[122] Their original patronymic, from, we suppose, _Old King Coul_; Coll, or Colla, is a common name in the tribe.

[123] The "Mire Chatta," or battle-dance, denotes the frenzy, supposed to animate the combatants, during the period of excitement.

[124] The clan consisted of many septs, whose rights of precedence are not quite ascertained; as Sleat, Clanronald, Glengarry, Keppoch, and Glencoe.

[125] _Lit._ Lowland or stranger. Killiecrankie and Sheriff Muir, not to mention Innerlochy and Tippermuir, must have blended the dying shrieks of Lowlanders with the triumphant shouts of the Gael. The image is a fine one.

[126] The armorial emblem was gules.

[127] Prince Charles Edward was expected.

THE BROWN DAIRY-MAIDEN.

Burns was fascinated with the effect of this song in Gaelic; and adopted the air for his "Banks of the Devon."

My brown dairy, brown dairy, Brown dairy-maiden; Brown dairy-maiden, Bell of the heather!

A fetter beguiling, dairy-maiden, thy smiling; Thy glove[128] there 's a wile in, of white hand the cover; When a-milking, thy stave is more sweet than the mavis, As his melodies ravish the woodlands all over; Thy wild notes so cheerie, bring the small birds to hear thee, And, fluttering, they near thee, who sings to discover.

To fulness as growing, so liquid, so flowing, Thy song makes a glow in the veins of thy lover.

My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.

They may talk of the viol, and its strings they may try all, For the heart's dance, outvie all, the songs of the dairy!

White and red are a-blending, on thy cheeks a-contending, And a smile is descending from thy lips of the cherry; Teeth their ivory disclosing, like dice, bright round rows in, An eye unreposing, with twinkle so merry; At summer-dawn straying, on my sight beams are raying, From the tresses[129] they 're playing of the maid of the dairy.

My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.

At milking the prime in, song with strokings is chiming, And the bowie is timing a chorus-like humming.

Sweet the gait of the maiden, nod her tresses a-spreading O'er her ears, like the mead in, the rash of the common.

Her neck, amber twining, its colours combining, How their l.u.s.tre is shining in union becoming!

My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.

Thy duties a-plying, white fingers are vying With white arms, in drying the streams of the heifer, O to linger the fold in, at noonday beholding, When the tether 's enfolding, be my pastime for ever!

The music of milking, with melodies lilting, While with "mammets" she 's "tilting," and her bowies run over, Is delight; and a.s.suming thy pails, as becoming As a lady, dear woman! grace thy motions discover.

My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.

[128] Dress ornaments are much prized by the humbler Gael, and make a great figure in their poetry.

[129] The most frequent of all song-images in Gaelic, is the description of yellow or auburn hair.

THE PRAISE OF MORAG.

This is the "Faust" of Gaelic poetry, incommunicable except to the native reader, and, like that celebrated composition, an untranslatable tissue of tenderness, sublimity, and mocking ribaldry. The heroine is understood to have been a young person of virtue and beauty, in the humbler walks of life, who was quite unappropriated, except by the imagination of the poet, and whose fame has pa.s.sed into the Phillis or Amaryllis _ideal_ of Highland accomplishment and grace. Macdonald was married to a scold, and though his actual relations with Morag were of the Platonic kind, he was persuaded to a retractation, ent.i.tled the "Disparagement of Morag," which is sometimes recited as a companion piece to the present. The consideration of brevity must plead our apology with the Celtic readers for omitting many stanzas of the best modern composition in their language.

URLAR.

O that I were the shaw in,[130]

When Morag was there, Lots to be drawing For the prize of the fair!

Mingling in your glee, Merry maidens! We Rolicking would be The flow'rets along; Time would pa.s.s away In the oblivion of our play, As we cropp'd the primrose gay, The rock-clefts among; Then in mock we 'd fight, Then we 'd take to flight, Then we 'd lose us quite, Where the cliffs overhung.

Like the dew-drop blue In the mist of morn So thine eye, and thy hue Put the blossom to scorn.

All beauties they shower On thy person their dower; Above is the flower, Beneath is the stem; 'Tis a sun 'mid the gleamers, 'Tis a star 'mid the streamers, 'Mid the flower-buds it shimmers The foremost of them!

Darkens eye-sight at thy ray!

As we wonder, still we say Can it be a thing of clay We see in that gem?

Since thy first feature Sparkled before me, Fair! not a creature Was like thy glory.[131]....

[130] We must suppose some sylvan social occupation, as oak-peeling or the like, in which Morag and her a.s.sociates had been employed.