LINESON THE CALEDONIAN HARP BEING SUCCEEDEDBY THE HIGHLAND BAGPIPES.In days that long have glided by,Beneath keen Scotia’s weeping sky,On many a hill of purple heath,In many a gloomy glen beneath,The wand’ring Lyrist once was knownTo pour his harp’s entrancing tone.Then, when the castle’s rocky formRose ’mid the dark surrounding storm,The Harper had a sacred seat,Whence he might breathe his wild notes sweet.Oh! then, when many a twinkling starShone in the azure vault afar,And mute was ev’ry mountain-bird,Soft music from the harp was heard;And when the morning’s blushes shedOn hill, or tow’r, their varying red,Oh! then the harp was heard to cheer,With earliest sound, th’ enraptur’d ear;Then many a lady fair was known,With snowy hand, to wake its tone;And infant fingers press’d the string,And back recoil’d, to hear it sing.Sweet instrument! such was thy pow’r,’Twas thine to gladden ev’ry hour;The young and old then honour’d thee,And smil’d to hear thy melody.Alas! as Time has turn’d to dustThe temple fair, the beauteous bust,Thou too hast mark’d his frowning brow;No Highland echo knows thee now:A savage has usurp’d thy place,Once fill’d by thee with ev’ry grace;Th’ inflated Pipe, with swinish drone,Calls forth applauses once thine own.
In days that long have glided by,Beneath keen Scotia’s weeping sky,On many a hill of purple heath,In many a gloomy glen beneath,The wand’ring Lyrist once was knownTo pour his harp’s entrancing tone.Then, when the castle’s rocky formRose ’mid the dark surrounding storm,The Harper had a sacred seat,Whence he might breathe his wild notes sweet.Oh! then, when many a twinkling starShone in the azure vault afar,And mute was ev’ry mountain-bird,Soft music from the harp was heard;And when the morning’s blushes shedOn hill, or tow’r, their varying red,Oh! then the harp was heard to cheer,With earliest sound, th’ enraptur’d ear;Then many a lady fair was known,With snowy hand, to wake its tone;And infant fingers press’d the string,And back recoil’d, to hear it sing.Sweet instrument! such was thy pow’r,’Twas thine to gladden ev’ry hour;The young and old then honour’d thee,And smil’d to hear thy melody.Alas! as Time has turn’d to dustThe temple fair, the beauteous bust,Thou too hast mark’d his frowning brow;No Highland echo knows thee now:A savage has usurp’d thy place,Once fill’d by thee with ev’ry grace;Th’ inflated Pipe, with swinish drone,Calls forth applauses once thine own.