The Highland Seer.
[Peter M'Arthur.—Here printed for the first time.]
Ye dark rolling clouds, round the brow of Ben Borrow,
O weep your dark tears to the green vales below;
Ye winds of the hill, wake your wailings of sorrow,
No beams of the morning can gladness bestow!
Arise, ye grey mists, from the loud falling Corrie,
And shroud from our children the sad sight of wail;
The warriors that left them high bounding for glory
Shall never return to the land of the Gael.
Our maidens have twined the wild mountain flowers.
To crown their young lovers they wait their return;
Alas, for their fondness! they know not of hours
When tidings of sorrow shall bid them to mourn.
I heard the dread howl of the wolf from the mountain,
I saw the dark death-bird flit over the plain,
I saw a red stream, and a blood-curdled fountain,
And the war-horse dash over the breasts of the slain.
The Saxon has swept o'er the plains of Culloden,
Our heroes have fallen, or wander'd afar
'Mong dark mountain caves, where the blue mist is shrouding—
No minstrel awaits their returning from war.
By yon gloomy pine, on the grey brow of Morra,
A young prince is wand'ring dejected and lone,
From his deep-troubled breast come the sad sighs of sorrow
For chieftains departed, and young virgins gone.
He turns his sad eyes to the land of his fathers,
Where the banners of welcome once waved on her towers:
Those honours departed are given to others,
The tears of regret wander down for those hours.
I see a white sail through the dim mist of ocean,
It comes like the beam on the dawning of day;
Albyn—awake thee to mournful devotion,
It bears him an exile for ever away.
St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.
[James Lemon.—Here first printed.—The author of this piece (a letter-carrier to the Glasgow Post Office) published in 1840 a small collection of "Original Poems and Songs."]
When the shadows o' midnicht fa' dark frae yon fane,
O'er the graves o' the dead a' sae silent an' lane;
An' the yellow sered leaf wavers in the chill breeze,
Singin' sadly the dirge o' the dead through the trees:
O! then, when the moon lichtly skims the nicht blue,
An' flings o'er a' nature a pale ghaistly hue,
I wander a' lanely, or lean on the sward,
Makin' main wi' the owl in St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.
