THE SONG OF THE FORSAKEN DROVER.

Mackay was entertained by Macechan, who was a respectable store-farmer, from his earliest life to his marriage. According to his reverend biographer,[94]the last lines of the elegy, of which the following is a translation, were much approved.

I see the wretch of high degree,Though poverty has struck his race,Pass with a darkness on his faceThat door of hospitality.I see the widow in her tears,Dark as her woe—I see her boy—From both, want reaves the dregs of joy;The flash of youth through rags appears.I see the poor's—the minstrel's lot—As brethren they—no boon for song!I see the unrequited wrongCall for its helper, who is not.You hear my plaint, and ask me, why?You ask mewhenthis deep distressBegan to rage without redress?"With Ian Macechan's dying sigh!"

I see the wretch of high degree,Though poverty has struck his race,Pass with a darkness on his faceThat door of hospitality.

I see the widow in her tears,Dark as her woe—I see her boy—From both, want reaves the dregs of joy;The flash of youth through rags appears.

I see the poor's—the minstrel's lot—As brethren they—no boon for song!I see the unrequited wrongCall for its helper, who is not.

You hear my plaint, and ask me, why?You ask mewhenthis deep distressBegan to rage without redress?"With Ian Macechan's dying sigh!"

During a long absence on a droving expedition, Mackay was deprived of his mistress by another lover, whom, in fine, she married. The discovery he made, on his return, led to this composition; which is a sequel to another composed on his distant journey, in which he seems to prognosticate something like what happened. Both are selected by Sir Walter Scott as specimens of the bard, and may be found paraphrastically rendered in a prose version, in theQuarterly Review, vol. xlv., p. 371, and in the notes to the last edition of "The Highland Drover," in "Chronicles of the Canongate." With regard to the present specimen, it may be remarked, that part of the original is either so obscure, or so freely rendered by Sir Walter Scott's translator, that we have attempted the present version, not without some little perplexity as to the sense of one or two allusions. We claim, on the whole, the merit of almost literal fidelity.

I fly from the fold, since my passion's despairNo longer must harbour the charms that are there;Anne's[95]slender eyebrows, her sleek tresses so long,Her turreted bosom—and Isabel's[96]song;What has been, and is not—woe 's my thought!It must not be spoken, nor can be forgot.

I wander'd the fold, and I rambled the grove,And each spot it reported the kiss of my love;But I saw her caressing another—and feel'Tis distraction to hear them, and see them so leal.What has been, and is not, &c.

Since 'twas told that a rival beguil'd thee away,The dreams of my love are the dreams of dismay;Though unsummon'd of thee,[97]love has captured thy thrall,And my hope of redemption for ever is small.Day and night, though I strive ayeTo shake him away, still he clings like the ivy.

But, auburn-hair'd Anna! to tell thee my plight,'Tis old love unrequited that prostrates my might,In presence or absence, aye faithful, my smartStill racks, and still searches, and tugs at my heart—Broken that heart, yet why disappearFrom my country, without one embrace from my dear?

She answers with laughter and haughty disdain—"To handle my snood you petition in vain;Six suitors are mine since the year thou wert gone,What artthou, that thou should'st be the favourite one?Art thou sick? Ha, ha, for thy woe!Art thou dying for love? Troth, love's payment was slow."[98]

Though my anger may feign it requites thy disdain,And vaunts in thy absence, it threatens in vain—All in vain! for thy image in fondness returns,And o'er thy sweet likeness expectancy burns;And I hope—yes, I hope once more,Till my hope waxes high as a tower[99]in its soar.

This is one of those lyrics, of which there are many in Gaelic poetry, that are intended to imitate pipe music. They consist of three parts, called Urlar, Siubhal, and Crunluath. The first is a slow, monotonous measure, usually, indeed, a mere repetition of the same words or tones; the second, a livelier or brisker melody, striking into description or narrative; the third, a rapid finale, taxing the reciter's or performer's powers to their utmost pitch of expedition. The heroine of the song is the same Isabel who is introduced towards the commencement of the "Forsaken Drover;" and it appears, from other verses in Mackay's collection, that it was not her fate to be "alone" through life. It is to be understood that when the verses were composed, she was in charge of her father's extensive pastoralmanége, and not a mere milk-maid or dairy-woman.

Isabel Mackay is with the milk kye,And Isabel Mackay is alone;Isabel Mackay is with the milk kye,And Isabel Mackay is alone, &c.Seest thou Isabel Mackay with the milk kye,At the forest foot—and alone?

By the Virgin and Son![100]Thou bride-lacking one,If ever thy timeIs coming, begone,The occasion is prime,For Isabel MackayIs with the milk kyeAt the skirts of the forest,And with her is none.By the Virgin and Son, &c.Woe is the sign!It is not wellWith the lads that dwellAround us, so brave,When the mistress fineOf Riothan-a-daveIs out with the kine,And with her is none.O, woe is the sign, &c.Whoever he beThat a bride would gainOf gentle degree,And a drove or twain,His speed let him strainTo Riothan-a-dave,And a bride he shall have.Then, to her so fain!Whoever he be, &c.And a bride he shall have,The maid that's alone.Isabel Mackay, &c.Oh, seest not the dearieSo fit for embracing,Her patience distressing,The bestial a-chasing,And she alone!'Tis a marvellous fashionThat men should be slack,When their bosoms lackAn object of passion,To look such a lass on,Her patience distressing,The bestial a-chasing,In the field, alone.

Woe is the sign!It is not wellWith the lads that dwellAround us, so brave,When the mistress fineOf Riothan-a-daveIs out with the kine,And with her is none.O, woe is the sign, &c.

Whoever he beThat a bride would gainOf gentle degree,And a drove or twain,His speed let him strainTo Riothan-a-dave,And a bride he shall have.Then, to her so fain!Whoever he be, &c.

And a bride he shall have,The maid that's alone.Isabel Mackay, &c.Oh, seest not the dearieSo fit for embracing,Her patience distressing,The bestial a-chasing,And she alone!

'Tis a marvellous fashionThat men should be slack,When their bosoms lackAn object of passion,To look such a lass on,Her patience distressing,The bestial a-chasing,In the field, alone.

Oh, look upon the prize, sirs,That where yon heights are rising,The whole long twelvemonth sighs in,Because she is alone.Go, learn it from my minstrelsy,Who list the tale to carry,The maiden shuns the public eye,And is ordain'd to tarry'Mid stoups and cans, and milking ware,Where brown hills rear their ridges bare,And wails her plight the livelong year,To spend the day alone.

Mackay was benighted on a deer-stalking expedition, near a wild hut or shealing, at the head of Loch Eriboll. Here he found its only inmate a poor asthmatic old man, stretched on his pallet, apparently at the point of death. As he sat by his bed-side, he "crooned," so as to be audible, it seems, to the patient, the following elegiac ditty, in which, it will be observed, he alludes to the death, then recent, of Pelham, an eminent statesman of George the Second's reign. As he was finishing his ditty, the old man's feelings were moved in a way which will be found in the appended note. This is one of Sir Walter Scott's extracts in theQuarterly, and is now attempted in the measure of the original.

How often, Death! art wakingThe imploring cry of Nature!When she sees her phalanx breaking,As thou'dst have all—grim feature!Since Autumn's leaves to brownness,Of deeper shade were tending,We saw thy step, from palaces,To Evan's nook descending.Oh, long, long thine agony!A nameless length its tide;Since breathless thou hast panted here,And not a friend beside.Thine errors what, I judge not;What righteous deeds undone;But if remains a se'ennight,Redeem it, dying one!Oh, marked we, Death! thy teachings true,What dust of time would blind?Such thy impartialityTo our highest, lowest kind.Thy look is upwards, downwards shot,Determined none to miss;It rose to Pelham's princely bower,It sinks to shed like this!Oh, long, long, &c.!So great thy victims, that the nobleStand humbled by the bier;So poor, it shames the poorestTo grace them with a tear.Between the minister of stateAnd him that grovels there,Should one remain uncounselled,Is there one whom dool shall spare?Oh, long, long, &c.!The hail that strews the battle-fieldNot louder sounds its call,Than the falling thousands round usAre voicing words to all.Hearken! least of all the nameless;Evan's hour is going fast;Hearken! greatest of earth's great ones—Princely Pelham's hour is past.Oh, long, long, &c.!Friends of my heart! in the twain we seeA type of life's declining;'Tis like the lantern's dripping light,At either end a-dwining.Where was there one more low than thou—Thou least of meanest things?[101]And where than his was higher placeExcept the throne of kings?Oh, long, long, &c.!

Oh, marked we, Death! thy teachings true,What dust of time would blind?Such thy impartialityTo our highest, lowest kind.Thy look is upwards, downwards shot,Determined none to miss;It rose to Pelham's princely bower,It sinks to shed like this!Oh, long, long, &c.!So great thy victims, that the nobleStand humbled by the bier;So poor, it shames the poorestTo grace them with a tear.Between the minister of stateAnd him that grovels there,Should one remain uncounselled,Is there one whom dool shall spare?Oh, long, long, &c.!The hail that strews the battle-fieldNot louder sounds its call,Than the falling thousands round usAre voicing words to all.Hearken! least of all the nameless;Evan's hour is going fast;Hearken! greatest of earth's great ones—Princely Pelham's hour is past.Oh, long, long, &c.!Friends of my heart! in the twain we seeA type of life's declining;'Tis like the lantern's dripping light,At either end a-dwining.Where was there one more low than thou—Thou least of meanest things?[101]And where than his was higher placeExcept the throne of kings?Oh, long, long, &c.!

Dougal Buchanan was born at the Mill of Ardoch, in the beautiful valley of Strathyre, and parish of Balquhidder, in the year 1716. His parents were in circumstances to allow him the education of the parish school; on which, by private application, he so far improved, as to be qualified to act as teacher and catechist to the Highland locality which borders on Loch Rannoch, under the appointment of the Society for Propagating Christian Knowledge. Never, it is believed, were the duties of a calling discharged with more zeal and efficiency. The catechist was, both in and out of the strict department of his office, a universal oracle,[102]and his name is revered in the scene of his usefulness in a degree to which the honours of canonization could scarcely have added. Pious, to the height of a proverbial model, he was withal frank, cheerful, and social; and from his extraordinary command of the Gaelic idiom, and its poetic phraseology, he must have lent an ear to many a song and many a legend[103]—a nourishment of the imagination in which, as well as in purity of Gaelic, hisnative Balquhidder was immeasurably inferior to the Rannoch district of his adoption.

The composition of hymns, embracing a most eloquent and musical paraphrase of many of the more striking inspirations of scriptural poetry, seems to have been the favourite employment of his leisure hours. These are sung or recited in every cottage of the Highlands where a reader or a retentive memory is to be found.

Buchanan's life was short. He was cut off by typhus fever, at a period when his talents had begun to attract a more than local attention. It was within a year after his return from superintending the press of the first version of the Gaelic New Testament, that his lamented death took place. His command of his native tongue is understood to have been serviceable to the translator, the Rev. James Stewart of Killin, who had probably been Buchanan's early acquaintance, as they were natives of the same district. This reverend gentleman is said to have entertained a scheme of getting the catechist regularly licensed to preach the gospel without the usual academical preparation. The scheme was frustrated by his death, in the summer of 1768.

We know of no fact relating to the development of the poetic vein of this interesting bard, unless it be found in the circumstance to which he refers in his "Diary,"[104]of having been bred a violent Jacobite, and having lived many years under the excitement of strong, even vindictive feelings, at the fate of his chief and landlord (Buchanan of Arnprior and Strathyre), who, with many of his dependents, and some of the poet's relations, suffered death for their share in the last rebellion. While he relates that the power of religion at length quenched thiseffervescence of his emotions, it may be supposed that ardent Jacobitism, with its common accompaniment of melody, may have fostered an imagination which every circumstance proves to have been sufficiently susceptible. It may be added, as a particular not unworthy of memorial in a poet's life, that his remains are deposited in perhaps the most picturesque place of sepulture in the kingdom—the peninsula of Little Leny, in the neighbourhood of Callander; to which his relatives transferred his body, as the sepulchre of many chiefs and considerable persons of his clan, and where it is perhaps matter of surprise that his Highland countrymen have never thought of honouring his memory with some kind of monument.

The poetic remains of Dougal Buchanan do not afford extensive materials for translation. The subjects with which he deals are too solemn, and their treatment too surcharged with scriptural imagery, to be available for the purposes of a popular collection, of which the object is not directly religious. The only exception that occurs, perhaps, is his poem on "The Skull." Even in this case some moral pictures[105]have been omitted, as either too coarsely or too solemnly touched, to be fit for our purpose. A few lines of the conclusion are also omitted, as being mere amplifications of Scripture—wonderful, indeed, in point of vernacular beauty or sublimity, but not fusible for other use. Slight traces of imitation may be perceived; "The Grave" of Blair, and some passages of "Hamlet," being the apparent models.

As I sat by the grave, at the brink of its caveLo! a featureless skull on the ground;The symbol I clasp, and detain in my grasp,While I turn it around and around.Without beauty or grace, or a glance to expressOf the bystander nigh, a thought;Its jaw and its mouth are tenantless both,Nor passes emotion its throat.No glow on its face, no ringlets to graceIts brow, and no ear for my song;Hush'd the caves of its breath, and the finger of deathThe raised features hath flatten'd along.The eyes' wonted beam, and the eyelids' quick gleam—The intelligent sight, are no more;But the worms of the soil, as they wriggle and coil,Come hither their dwellings to bore.No lineament here is left to declareIf monarch or chief art thou;Alexander the Brave, as the portionless slaveThat on dunghill expires, is as low.Thou delver of death, in my ear let thy breathWho tenants my hand, unfold;That my voice may not die without a reply,Though the ear it addresses is cold.Say, wert thou a May,[106]of beauty a ray,And flatter'd thine eye with a smile?Thy meshes didst set, like the links of a net,The hearts of the youth to wile?Alas every charm that a bosom could warmIs changed to the grain of disgust!Oh, fie on the spoiler for daring to soil herGracefulness all in the dust!Say, wise in the law, did the people with aweAcknowledge thy rule o'er them—A magistrate true, to all dealing their due,And just to redress or condemn?Or was righteousness sold for handfuls of goldIn the scales of thy partial decree;While the poor were unheard when their suit they preferr'd,And appeal'd their distresses to thee?Say, once in thine hour, was thy medicine of powerTo extinguish the fever of ail?And seem'd, as the pride of thy leech-craft e'en triedO'er omnipotent death to prevail?Alas, that thine aid should have ever betray'dThy hope when the need was thine own;What salve or annealing sufficed for thy healingWhen the hours of thy portion were flown?Or—wert thou a hero, a leader to glory,While armies thy truncheon obey'd;To victory cheering, as thy foemen careeringIn flight, left their mountains of dead?Was thy valiancy laid, or unhilted thy blade,When came onwards in battle arrayThe sepulchre-swarms, ensheathed in their arms,To sack and to rifle their prey?How they joy in their spoil, as thy body the whileBesieging, the reptile is vain,And her beetle-mate blind hums his gladness to findHis defence in the lodge of thy brain!Some dig where the sheen of the ivory has been,Some, the organ where music repair'd;In rabble and rout they come in and come outAt the gashes their fangs have bared.* * * * *Do I hold in my hand a whole lordship of land,Represented by nakedness, here?Perhaps not unkind to the helpless thy mind,Nor all unimparted thy gear;Perhaps stern of brow to thy tenantry thou!To leanness their countenances grew—'Gainst their crave for respite, when thy clamour for rightRequired, to a moment, its due;While the frown of thy pride to the aged deniedTo cover their head from the chill,And humbly they stand, with their bonnet in hand,As cold blows the blast of the hill.Thy serfs may look on, unheeding thy frown,Thy rents and thy mailings unpaid;All praise to the stroke their bondage that broke!While but claims their obeisance the dead.* * * * *Or a head do I clutch, whose devices were such,That death must have lent them his sting—So daring they were, so reckless of fear,As heaven had wanted a king?Did the tongue of the lie, while it couch'd like a spyIn the haunt of thy venomous jaws,Its slander display, as poisons its preyThe devilish snake in the grass?That member unchain'd, by strong bands is restrain'd,The inflexible shackles of death;And, its emblem, the trail of the worm, shall prevailWhere its slaver once harbour'd beneath.And oh! if thy scorn went down to thine urnAnd expired, with impenitent groan;To repose where thou art is of peace all thy part,And then to appear—at the Throne!Like a frog, from the lake that leapeth, to takeTo the Judge of thy actions the way,And to hear from His lips, amid nature's eclipse,Thy sentence of termless dismay.* * * * *The hardness of iron thy bones shall environ,To brass-links the veins of thy frameShall stiffen, and the glow of thy manhood shall growLike the anvil that melts not in flame!But wert thou the mould of a champion boldFor God and his truth and his law?Oh, then, though the fence of each limb and each senseIs broken—each gem with a flaw—Be comforted thou! For rising in airThy flight shall the clarion obey;And the shell of thy dust thou shalt leave to be crush'd,If they will, by the creatures of prey.

* * * * *

Do I hold in my hand a whole lordship of land,Represented by nakedness, here?Perhaps not unkind to the helpless thy mind,Nor all unimparted thy gear;Perhaps stern of brow to thy tenantry thou!To leanness their countenances grew—'Gainst their crave for respite, when thy clamour for rightRequired, to a moment, its due;While the frown of thy pride to the aged deniedTo cover their head from the chill,And humbly they stand, with their bonnet in hand,As cold blows the blast of the hill.Thy serfs may look on, unheeding thy frown,Thy rents and thy mailings unpaid;All praise to the stroke their bondage that broke!While but claims their obeisance the dead.

* * * * *

Or a head do I clutch, whose devices were such,That death must have lent them his sting—So daring they were, so reckless of fear,As heaven had wanted a king?Did the tongue of the lie, while it couch'd like a spyIn the haunt of thy venomous jaws,Its slander display, as poisons its preyThe devilish snake in the grass?That member unchain'd, by strong bands is restrain'd,The inflexible shackles of death;And, its emblem, the trail of the worm, shall prevailWhere its slaver once harbour'd beneath.And oh! if thy scorn went down to thine urnAnd expired, with impenitent groan;To repose where thou art is of peace all thy part,And then to appear—at the Throne!Like a frog, from the lake that leapeth, to takeTo the Judge of thy actions the way,And to hear from His lips, amid nature's eclipse,Thy sentence of termless dismay.

* * * * *

The hardness of iron thy bones shall environ,To brass-links the veins of thy frameShall stiffen, and the glow of thy manhood shall growLike the anvil that melts not in flame!But wert thou the mould of a champion boldFor God and his truth and his law?Oh, then, though the fence of each limb and each senseIs broken—each gem with a flaw—Be comforted thou! For rising in airThy flight shall the clarion obey;And the shell of thy dust thou shalt leave to be crush'd,If they will, by the creatures of prey.

We submit these further illustrations of the moral maxims of "The Skull." In the original they are touched in phraseology scarcely unworthy of the poet's Saxon models.

As lockfasted in slumber's armsI lay and dream'd (so dreams our raceWhen every spectral object charms,To melt, like shadow, in the chase),A vision came; mine ear confess'dIts solemn sounds. "Thou man distraught!Say, owns the wind thy hand's arrest,Or fills the world thy crave of thought?* * * * *"Since fell transgression ravaged hereAnd reft Man's garden-joys away,He weeps his unavailing tear,And straggles, like a lamb astray."With shrilling bleat for comfort hieTo every pinfold, humankind;Ah, there the fostering teat is dry,The stranger mother proves unkind."No rest for toil, no drink for drought,For bosom-peace the shadow's wing—So feeds expectancy on nought,And suckles every lying thing."Some woe for ever wreathes its chain,And hope foretells the clasp undone;Relief at handbreadth seems, in vainThy fetter'd arms embrace—'tis gone!"Not all that trial's lore unlearnsOf all the lies that life betrays,Avails, for still desire returns—The last day's folly is to-day's."Thy wish has prosper'd—has its tasteSurvived the hour its lust was drown'd;Or yields thine expectation's zestTo full fruition, golden-crown'd?"The rosebud is life's symbol bloom,'Tis loved, 'tis coveted, 'tis riven—Its grace, its fragrance, find a tomb,When to the grasping hand 'tis given."Go, search the world, wherever woeOf high or low the bosom wrings,There, gasp for gasp, and throe for throe,Is answer'd from the breast of kings."From every hearth-turf reeks its cloud,From every heart its sigh is roll'd;The rose's stalk is fang'd—one shroudIs both the sting's and honey's fold."Is wealth thy lust—does envy pineWhere high its tempting heaps are piled?Look down, behold the fountain shine,And, deeper still, with dregs defiled!"Quickens thy breath with rash inhale,And falls an insect[107]in its toil?The creature turns thy life-blood pale,And blends thine ivory teeth with soil."When high thy fellow-mortal soars,His state is like the topmost nest—It swings with every blast that roars,And every motion shakes its crest."And if the world for once is kind,Yet ever has the lot its bend;Where fortune has the crook inclined,Not all thy strength or art shall mend."For as the sapling's sturdy stalk,Whose double twist is crossly strain'd,Such is thy fortune—sure to baulkAt this extreme what there was gain'd."When Heaven its gracious manna hail'd,'Twas vain who hoarded its supply,Not all his miser care avail'dHis neighbour's portion to outvie."So, blended all that nature owns,So, warp'd all hopes that mortals bless—With boundless wealth, the sufferer's groans;With courtly luxury, distress."Lift up the balance—heap with gold,Its other shell vile dust shall fill;And were a kingdom's ransom told,The scales would want adjustment still."Life has its competence—nor deemThat better than enough were more;Sure it were phantasy to dreamWith burdens to assuage thy sore."It is the fancy's whirling strifeThat breeds thy pain—to-day it craves,To-morrow spurns—suffices lifeWhen passion asks what passion braves?"Should appetite her wish achieve,To herd with brutes her joy would bound;Pleased other paradise to leave,Content to pasture on the ground."But pride rebels, nor towers aloneBeyond that confine's lowly sphere—Seems as from the Eternal ThroneIt aim'd the sceptre's self to tear."'Tis thus we trifle, thus we dare;But, seek we to our bliss the way,Let us to Heaven our path refer,Believe, and worship, and obey."That choice is all—to range beyondNor must, nor needs; provision, grace,In these He gives, who sits enthroned,Salvation, competence, and peace."The instructive vision pass'd away,But not its wisdom's dreamless lore;No more in shadow-tracks I stray,And fondle shadow-shapes no more.

As lockfasted in slumber's armsI lay and dream'd (so dreams our raceWhen every spectral object charms,To melt, like shadow, in the chase),

A vision came; mine ear confess'dIts solemn sounds. "Thou man distraught!Say, owns the wind thy hand's arrest,Or fills the world thy crave of thought?

* * * * *

"Since fell transgression ravaged hereAnd reft Man's garden-joys away,He weeps his unavailing tear,And straggles, like a lamb astray.

"With shrilling bleat for comfort hieTo every pinfold, humankind;Ah, there the fostering teat is dry,The stranger mother proves unkind.

"No rest for toil, no drink for drought,For bosom-peace the shadow's wing—So feeds expectancy on nought,And suckles every lying thing.

"Some woe for ever wreathes its chain,And hope foretells the clasp undone;Relief at handbreadth seems, in vainThy fetter'd arms embrace—'tis gone!

"Not all that trial's lore unlearnsOf all the lies that life betrays,Avails, for still desire returns—The last day's folly is to-day's.

"Thy wish has prosper'd—has its tasteSurvived the hour its lust was drown'd;Or yields thine expectation's zestTo full fruition, golden-crown'd?

"The rosebud is life's symbol bloom,'Tis loved, 'tis coveted, 'tis riven—Its grace, its fragrance, find a tomb,When to the grasping hand 'tis given.

"Go, search the world, wherever woeOf high or low the bosom wrings,There, gasp for gasp, and throe for throe,Is answer'd from the breast of kings.

"From every hearth-turf reeks its cloud,From every heart its sigh is roll'd;The rose's stalk is fang'd—one shroudIs both the sting's and honey's fold.

"Is wealth thy lust—does envy pineWhere high its tempting heaps are piled?Look down, behold the fountain shine,And, deeper still, with dregs defiled!

"Quickens thy breath with rash inhale,And falls an insect[107]in its toil?The creature turns thy life-blood pale,And blends thine ivory teeth with soil.

"When high thy fellow-mortal soars,His state is like the topmost nest—It swings with every blast that roars,And every motion shakes its crest.

"And if the world for once is kind,Yet ever has the lot its bend;Where fortune has the crook inclined,Not all thy strength or art shall mend.

"For as the sapling's sturdy stalk,Whose double twist is crossly strain'd,Such is thy fortune—sure to baulkAt this extreme what there was gain'd.

"When Heaven its gracious manna hail'd,'Twas vain who hoarded its supply,Not all his miser care avail'dHis neighbour's portion to outvie.

"So, blended all that nature owns,So, warp'd all hopes that mortals bless—With boundless wealth, the sufferer's groans;With courtly luxury, distress.

"Lift up the balance—heap with gold,Its other shell vile dust shall fill;And were a kingdom's ransom told,The scales would want adjustment still.

"Life has its competence—nor deemThat better than enough were more;Sure it were phantasy to dreamWith burdens to assuage thy sore.

"It is the fancy's whirling strifeThat breeds thy pain—to-day it craves,To-morrow spurns—suffices lifeWhen passion asks what passion braves?

"Should appetite her wish achieve,To herd with brutes her joy would bound;Pleased other paradise to leave,Content to pasture on the ground.

"But pride rebels, nor towers aloneBeyond that confine's lowly sphere—Seems as from the Eternal ThroneIt aim'd the sceptre's self to tear.

"'Tis thus we trifle, thus we dare;But, seek we to our bliss the way,Let us to Heaven our path refer,Believe, and worship, and obey.

"That choice is all—to range beyondNor must, nor needs; provision, grace,In these He gives, who sits enthroned,Salvation, competence, and peace."

The instructive vision pass'd away,But not its wisdom's dreamless lore;No more in shadow-tracks I stray,And fondle shadow-shapes no more.

Duncan Macintyre (Donacha Ban) is considered by his countrymen the most extraordinary genius that the Highlands in modern times have produced. Without having learned a letter of any alphabet, he was enabled to pour forth melodies that charmed every ear to which they were intelligible. And he is understood to have had the published specimens of his poetry committed to writing by no mean judge of their merit,—the late Dr Stewart of Luss,—who, when a young man, became acquainted with this extraordinary person, in consequence of his being employed as a kind of under-keeper in a forest adjoining to the parish of which the Doctor's father was minister.

Macintyre was born in Druimliart of Glenorchy on the 20th of March 1724, and died in October 1812. He was chiefly employed in the capacity of keeper in several of the Earl of Breadalbane's forests. He carried a musket, however, in his lordship's fencibles; which led him to take part, much against his inclination, in the Whig ranks at the battle of Falkirk. Later in life he transferred his musket to the Edinburgh City Guard.

Macintyre's best compositions are those which are descriptive of forest scenes, and those which he dedicated to the praise of his wife. His verses are, however, very numerous, and embrace a vast variety of subjects. From the extraordinary diffusiveness of his descriptions, and the boundless luxuriance of his expressions, much difficulty has been experienced in reproducing his strains in the English idiom.

My young, my fair, my fair-hair'd Mary,My life-time love, my own!The vows I heard, when my kindest dearieWas bound to me alone,By covenant true, and ritual holy,Gave happiness all but divine;Nor needed there more to transport me wholly,Than the friends that hail'd thee mine.* * * * *'Twas a Monday morn, and the way that partedWas far, but I rivall'd the wind,The troth to plight with a maiden true-hearted,That force can never unbind.I led her apart, and the hour that we reckon'd,While I gain'd a love and a bride,I heard my heart, and could tell each second,As its pulses struck on my side.* * * * *I told my ail to the foe that pain'd me,And said that no salve could save;She heard the tale, and her leech-craft it sain'd me,For herself to my breast she gave.* * * * *Forever, my dear, I 'll dearly adore theeFor chasing away, away,My fancy's delusion, new loves ever choosing,And teaching no more to stray.I roam'd in the wood, many a tendril surveying,All shapely from branch to stem,My eye, as it look'd, its ambition betrayingTo cull the fairest from them;One branch of perfume, in blossom all over,Bent lowly down to my hand,And yielded its bloom, that hung high from each lover,To me, the least of the band.I went to the river, one net-cast I threw in,Where the stream's transparence ran,Forget shall I never, how the beauty[108]I drew in,Shone bright as the gloss of the swan.Oh, happy the day that crown'd my affectionWith such a prize to my share!My love is a ray, a morning reflection,Beside me she sleeps, a star.

* * * * *

'Twas a Monday morn, and the way that partedWas far, but I rivall'd the wind,The troth to plight with a maiden true-hearted,That force can never unbind.I led her apart, and the hour that we reckon'd,While I gain'd a love and a bride,I heard my heart, and could tell each second,As its pulses struck on my side.

* * * * *

I told my ail to the foe that pain'd me,And said that no salve could save;She heard the tale, and her leech-craft it sain'd me,For herself to my breast she gave.

* * * * *

Forever, my dear, I 'll dearly adore theeFor chasing away, away,My fancy's delusion, new loves ever choosing,And teaching no more to stray.I roam'd in the wood, many a tendril surveying,All shapely from branch to stem,My eye, as it look'd, its ambition betrayingTo cull the fairest from them;One branch of perfume, in blossom all over,Bent lowly down to my hand,And yielded its bloom, that hung high from each lover,To me, the least of the band.I went to the river, one net-cast I threw in,Where the stream's transparence ran,Forget shall I never, how the beauty[108]I drew in,Shone bright as the gloss of the swan.Oh, happy the day that crown'd my affectionWith such a prize to my share!My love is a ray, a morning reflection,Beside me she sleeps, a star.

Bendourain is a forest scene in the wilds of Glenorchy. The poem, or lay, is descriptive, less of the forest, or its mountain fastnesses, than of the habits of the creatures that tenant the locality—the dun-deer, and the roe. So minutely enthusiastic is the hunter's treatment of his theme, that the attempt to win any favour for his performance from the Saxon reader, is attended with no small risk,—although it is possible that a little practice with the rifle in any similar wilderness may propitiate even the holiday sportsman somewhat in favour of the subject and its minute details. We must commit this forest minstrel to the good-nature of other readers, entreating them only to renderdue acknowledgment to the forbearance which has, in the meantime, troubled them only with the first half of the performance, and with a single stanza of the finale. The composition is always rehearsed or sung to pipe music, of which it is considered, by those who understand the original, a most extraordinary echo, besides being in other respects a very powerful specimen of Gaelic minstrelsy.

The noble Otter hill!It is a chieftain Beinn,[109]Ever the fairest stillOf all these eyes have seen.Spacious is his side;I love to range where hide,In haunts by few espied,The nurslings of his den.In the bosky shadeOf the velvet glade,Couch, in softness laid,The nimble-footed deer;To see the spotted pack,That in scenting never slack,Coursing on their track,Is the prime of cheer.Merry may the stag be,The lad that so fairlyFlourishes the russet coatThat fits him so rarely.'Tis a mantle whose wearTime shall not tear;'Tis a banner that ne'erSees its colours depart:And when they seek his doom,Let a man of action come,A hunter in his bloom,With rifle not untried:A notch'd, firm fasten'd flint,To strike a trusty dint,And make the gun-lock glintWith a flash of pride.Let the barrel be but true,And the stock be trusty too,So, Lightfoot,[110]though he flew,Shall be purple-dyed.He should not be novice bred,But a marksman of first head,By whom that stag is sped,In hill-craft not unskill'd;So, when Padraig of the glenCall'd his hounds and men,The hill spake back again,As his orders shrill'd;Then was firing snell,And the bullets rain'd like hail,And the red-deer fellLike warrior on the field.

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