A HIGHLAND CORONACH
Or Lament over the Acts and State of the Duke of Atholl.
After Scott.
He has shut up the mountain,
He has locked up the forest,
He has bunged up the fountain,
When our need was the sorest;
The traveller stirring
To the North, may dogs borrow;
But the Duke gives no hearing,
No pass—but to sorrow.
The hand of the tourist
Grasps the carpet-bag grimly,
But a face of the dourest
Frowns through the Glen dimly.
The autumn winds, rushing,
Stir a kilt of the queerest,
Duke and gillies come crushing
Where pleasure is nearest!
Queer foot on the corrie,
Oddly loving to cumber—
Give up this odd foray,
Awake from your slumber!
Take your ban from the mountain,
Take your lock from the river,
Take your bolt from the fountain,
Now at once, and for ever!
The sad fate of our only ham.—The pursuit.
