Through rich green solitudes,
And wildly hanging woods
With blossom and with bell,
In rich redundant swell,
And the pride
Of the mountain daisy there,
And the forest everywhere,
With the dress and with the air
Of a bride.
Song for Macleod of Macleod.
MARY MACLEOD
Alone on the hill-top,
Sadly and silently,
Downward on Islay
And over the sea—
I look and I wonder
How time hath deceived me:
A stranger in Muile[25]
Who ne’er thought to be.
Ne’er thought it, my island!
Where rests the deep dark shade
Thy grand mossy mountains
For ages have made—
God bless thee, and prosper!
Thy chief of the sharp blade,
All over these islands,
His fame never fade!
Never fade it, Sir Norman!
For well ’tis the right
Of thy name to win credit
In council or fight;
By wisdom, by shrewdness,
By spirit, by might,
By manliness, courage,
By daring, by sleight.
In council or fight, thy kindred
Know these should be thine—
Branch of Lochlin’s wide-ruling
And king-bearing line!
And in Erin they know it—
Far over the brine:
No Earl would in Albin
Thy friendship decline.
Yes! the nobles of Erin
Thy titles well know,
To the honour and friendship
Of high and of low.
Born the deed-marks to follow,
Thy father did show,—
That friend of the noble—
That manliest foe.
That friend of the noble—
From him art thou heir
To virtues which Albin
Was proud to declare:
Crown’d the best of her chieftains
Long, long may’st thou wear
The blossoms paternal
His broad branches bare!
O banner’d Clan Ruari!
Whose loss is my woe,
Of this chief who survives
May I ne’er hear he’s low;
But, darling of mortals!
From him though I go,
Long the shapeliest, comeliest
Form may he show!