BALLADS, LYRICAL PIECES, AND SONGS. GLENFINLAS, OR LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. "O HONE a rie'! O hone a rie'! O, sprung from great Macgillianore, Well can the Saxon widows tell, How, on the Teith's resounding shore, The boldest Lowland warriors fell, As down from Lenny's pass you bore. But o'er his hills, on festal day, How blazed Lord Ronald's Beltane tree; While youths and maids the light strathspey So nimbly danced, with Highland glee. Cheered by the strength of Ronald's shell, But now the loud lament they swell, From distant isles a chieftain came, The joys of Ronald's hall to find, And chase with him the dark brown game . That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind. 'Twas Moy; whom, in Columba's isle, Full many a spell to him was known, Which wand'ring spirits shrink to hear; And many a lay of potent tone, Was never meant for mortal ear. For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood, High converse with the dead they hold, And oft espy the fated shroud, That shall the future corpse enfold. O so it fell, that on a day, To rouse the red deer from their den, The chiefs have ta'en their distant way, And scoured the deep Glenfinlas glen. No vassals wait, their sports to aid, To watch their safety, deck their board: Their simple dress, the Highland plaid, Their trusty guard, the Highland sword. Three summer days, through brake and dell, Their whistling shafts successful flew; And still, when dewy evening fell, The quarry to their hut they drew. In gray Glenfinlas' deepest nook Fast by Moneira's sullen brook, Which murmurs through that lonely wood. Soft fell the night, the sky was calm, When three successive days had flown; And summer mist in dewy balm Steeped heathy bank and mossy stone. The moon, half-hid in silvery flakes, Now in their hut, in social guise, Their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy; And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes, As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy. "What lack we here to crown our bliss, While thus the pulse of joy beats high? What, but fair woman's yielding kiss, Her panting breath, and melting eye? "To chase the deer of yonder shades, This morning left their father's pile The fairest of our mountain maids, The daughters of the proud Glengyle. "Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart, And dropped the tear, and heaved the sigh: But vain the lover's wily art, Beneath a sister's watchful eye. “But thou may'st teach that guardian fair, Of other hearts to cease her care, "Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see The lovely Flora of Glengyle, Unmindful of her charge and me, Hang on thy notes, 'twixt tear and smile. "Or, if she choose a melting tale, "Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death, No more on me shall rapture rise, Responsive to the panting breath, Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes. "E'en then, when o'er the heath of wo, "The last dread curse of angry heaven, "The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn, So gayly part from Oban's bay, My eye beheld her dashed and torn, Far on the rocky Colonsay. "Thy Fergus too thy sister's son, Thou saw'st, with pride, the gallant's power As marching 'gainst the Lord of Downe, He left the skirts of huge Benmore. "Thou only saw'st their tartans wave, s down Benvoirlich's side they wound, Heard'st but the pibroch, answ'ring brave To many a target clanking round. "I heard the groans, I marked the tears, "And thou, who bid'st me think of bliss, "I see the death-damps chill thy brow; I hear thy Warning Spirit cry ; The corpse-lights dance—they're gone, and now No more is given to gifted eye! "Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams, Sad prophet of the evil hour! Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams, Because to-morrow's storm may lower? |