When evening came down on the hill,
The time for return to the star of the glen,
The kindly lodge where the noble gathered,
The sons of the tartan and the plaid,
With joy and triumph they returned
To the dwelling of plenty and repose;
The bright blazing hearth—the circling wine—
The welcome of the noble chief!
Ben Dorain.
DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE
The honour o’er each hill
Hath Ben Dorain;
Scene, to me, the sweetest still
That day dawns upon:
Its long moor’s level way,
And its nooks whence wild deer stray,
To the lustre on the brae
Oft I’ve lauded them.
Dear to me its dusky boughs,
In the wood where green grass grows,
And the stately herd repose,
Or there wander slow;
But the troops with bellies white,
When the chase comes into sight,
Then I love to watch their flight,
Going nosily.
The stag is airy, brisk, and light,
And no pomp has he;
Though his garb’s the fashion quite,
Never haughty he:
Yet a mantle’s round him spread,
Not soon threadbare, then shed,
And its hue as wax is red—
Fairly clothing him.
The delight I felt to rise
At the morning’s call!
And to see the troops I prize
The hills thronging all:
Ten score with stately tread,
And with light uplifted head,
Quite unpampered there that fed,
Fond and fawning all.
Lightsomely there came
From each clean and shapely frame,
Through their murmuring lips, a tame
Chant, with drawling fall.
In the pool one rolled a low—
With the hind one played the beau,
As she trotted to and fro,
Looking saucily.
I would rather have the deer
Gasping moaningly,
Than all Erin’s songs to hear
Sung melodiously;
For above the finest bass
Hath the stag’s sweet voice a grace,
As he bellows on the face
Of Ben Dorain.