Around, around, young Keeldar wound,
And called, in scornful tone,
With him to pass the barrier ground,
The Spirit of the Stone.
The rude crag rocked; "I come for death!
"I come to work thy woe!"
And 'twas the Brown Man of the Heath,
That murmured from below.
But onward, onward, Keeldar past,
Swift as the winter wind,
When, hovering on the driving blast,
The snow-flakes fall behind.
They passed the muir of berries blae,
The stone cross on the lee;
They reached the green, the bonny brae,
Beneath the birchen tree.
This is the bonny brae, the green,
Yet sacred to the brave,
Where still, of ancient size, is seen
Gigantic Keeldar's grave.
The lonely shepherd loves to mark
The daisy springing fair,
Where weeps the birch of silver bark,
With long dishevelled hair.
The grave is green, and round is spread
The curling lady-fern;
That fatal day the mould was red,
No moss was on the cairn.
And next they passed the chapel there;
The holy ground was by,
Where many a stone is sculptured fair,
To mark where warriors lie.
And here, beside the mountain flood,
A massy castle frown'd,
Since first the Pictish race in blood
The haunted pile did found.
The restless stream its rocky base
Assails with ceaseless din;
And many a troubled spirit strays
The dungeons dark within.