"'Stormy hills, did ye protect him, that o'erlook Culloden's plain,
Dabbled with the heather blossoms red as life-drops of the slain?
Did ye hide your hunted children from the vengeance of the foe?
Did ye rally back the flying for one last despairing blow?
No! the kingdom is the Saxon's, and the humbled clans obey,
And our bones must rot in exile who disdain usurper's sway.
"'He is sunk in wine's oblivion for whom Highland blood was shed,
Whom the wretched cateran shelter'd, with a price upon his head,
Beaten down like hounds by scourging, crouching from their master's sight;
And I tread my native mountains, as a robber, in the night;
Spite of tempest, spite of danger, hostile man and hostile sea,
Gory field of sad Culloden, I have come to gaze on thee!'
"So he pluck'd a tuft of heather that was blooming at his foot,
That was nourish'd by dead kinsmen, and their bones were at its root;
With a sigh he took the blossom, and he strode unto the strand,
Where his Danish crew awaited with a motley fisher band;
Brief the parley, swift his sailing, with the tide, and ne'er again
Saw the Moray Firth the stranger or the schooner of the Dane."
"Eilan Mohr" and the "Vow of Ian Lom," the renowned Seannachie of the Highlands, are both fine poems, but rather too long for extract; and as we do not doubt that this volume will erelong be found in the boudoir and drawing-room of many of our fair countrywomen, we have less hesitation in leaving them to a more leisurely perusal.
The young authoress will, we trust, forgive us if we tender one word of advice before parting with her on the heights of Urrard—a spot which was once—and we hope will be again—the home of more worth, beauty, and excellence, than is often to be found within the circle of a single family. She ought to be very cautious in her attempts to write in the Scottish dialect. Few, even of those who have habitually heard it spoken from their childhood, can discern the almost indefinable line which exists between the older and purer phraseology, and that which is more corrupt. The very spelling of the words is a matter of considerable difficulty, and when not correctly written, the effect is any thing but pleasing. With this hint and another extract we shall return the volume to better keeping than our own, with our sincere approval of its contents, and our admiration for the genius of the writer.
"The Old House of Urrard.
"Dost fear the grim brown twilight?
Dost care to walk alone,
When the firs upon the hill-top
With human voices moan?
When the river twineth restless
Through deep and jagged linn,
Like one who cannot sleep o' nights
For evil thoughts within?
When the hooting owls grow silent,
The ghostly sounds to hark,
In the ancient house of Urrard,
When the night is still and dark.
"There are graves about old Urrard,
Huge mounds by rock and tree;
And they who lie beneath them
Died fighting by Dundee.
Far down along the valley,
And up along the hill,
The fight of Killicrankie
Has left a story still.
But thickest show the traces
And thickest throng the sprites,
In the woods about old Urrard,
On the gloomy winter nights.
"In the garden of old Urrard,
Among the bosky yews,
A turfen hillock riseth
Where latest lie the dews;
Here sank the warrior stricken
By charmèd silver ball,
And all the hope of victory
Fell with him in his fall.
Last stay of exiled Stuart,
Last heir of chivalrie,
In the garden of old Urrard
He died, the brave Dundee!
"In the ancient house of Urrard,
There's many a hiding den;
The very walls are hollow,
To cover dying men;
For not e'en lady's chamber
Barr'd out the fierce affray;
And couch and damask curtain
Were stain'd with blood that day
And there's a secret passage,
Whence sword, and skull, and bone,
Were brought to light in Urrard,
When years had pass'd and gone.