Dark, tangled, deep, no drifted heap,
But sheaf-like, neatly bound
Thy tresses seem, in braids, or stream
As bright thine ears around.
Those raven spires of hair, that fair,
That turret-bosom's shine!
False friends! from me that banish'd thee,
Who fain would call thee mine.
No lilts I spin, their love to win,
The viol strings I shun,
But lend thine ear and thou shalt hear
My wisdom, dearest one!
ROBERT MACKAY.
THE HIGHLANDER'S HOME SICKNESS.
We have been favoured by Mr William Sinclair with the following spirited translation of Mackay's first address to the fair-haired Anna, the heroine of the "Forsaken Drover" (vol. i. p. 315). In the enclosures of Crieff, the Highland bard laments his separation from the hills of Sutherland, and the object of his love.
Easy is my pillow press'd
But, oh! I cannot, cannot rest;
Northwards do the shrill winds blow—
Thither do my musings go!
Better far with thee in groves,
Where the young deers sportive roam,
Than where, counting cattle droves,
I must sickly sigh for home.
Great the love I bear for her
Where the north winds wander free,
Sportive, kindly is her air,
Pride and folly none hath she!
Were I hiding from my foes,
Aye, though fifty men were near,
I should find concealment close
In the shieling of my dear.
Beauty's daughter! oh, to see
Days when homewards I 'll repair—
Joyful time to thee and me—
Fair girl with the waving hair!