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But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand, We list the legends of our native land, Link'd as they come with every tender tie, Memorials dear of youth and infancy.
Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon, Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son. Whether on India's burning coasts he toil, Or till Acadia's winter-fetter'd soil, He hears with throbbing heart and moisten’d eyes, And as he hears, what dear illusions rise! It opens on his soul his native dell, The woods wild waving, and the water's swell : Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain, The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain; The cot beneath whose simple porch were told, By gray-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old,
The infant group that hush'd their sports the while,
And the dear maid who listen'd with a smile. The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain, Is denizen of Scotland once again.
Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined, And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind? Oh no! for she, within whose mighty page Each tyrant passion shows his woe and rage, Has felt the wizard influence they inspire, And to your own traditions tuned her lyre. Yourselves shall judge—whoe'er has raised the sail By Mull's dark coast has heard this evening's tale. The plaided boatman, resting on his oar, Points to the fatal rock amid the roar Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night Our humble stage shall offer to your sight; Proudly preferr'd, that first our efforts give Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live; More proudly yet, should Caledon approve The filial token of a daughter's love!
In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil,
Though the whirlwind should rise, and the ocean should
boil: On the brave vessel's gunnel I drank his bonnail." And farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail.
Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet southland gale!
Be his pilot experienced, and trusty, and wise,
IMITATION or the pheceding song.
So sung the old Bard, in the grief of his heart,
From the far southland border a minstrel came forth,
And shalt thou then sleep, did the minstrel exclaim,
In vain, the bright course of thy talents to wrong,
thy sons rose around thee in light and in love, All a father could hope, all a friend could approve; what 'vails it the tale of thy sorrows to tell,— In the spring-time of youth and of promise they fell! of the line of Fitzgerald remains not a male, To bear the proud name of the Chief of Kintail.
And thou, gentle dame, who must bear to thy grief. For thy clan and thy country, the cares of a chief,
Bonail’, or Ronallez, the old Scottish phrase for a frast as parting with a friend.