With many a cavern seam'd, the A bark with planks so warp'd and dreary haunt Of the dun seal and swarthy cormo rant. Wild round their rifted brows, with frequent cry seams so riven, She scarce might face the gentlest airs of heaven: Pensive he sits, and questions oft if none As of lament, the gulls and gannets Can list his speech, and understand fly, his moan; And from their sable base, with sullen In vain : no Islesman now can use the To moor his fishing craft by Bressay's For ne'er for Grecia's vales, nor Latian Greets every former mate and brother Was fiercer strife than for this barren Marvels how Lerwick 'scaped the rage Arace severe-the isle and ocean lords Loved for its own delight the strife of of war, Tells many a tale of Gallic outrage done, And ends by blessing God and Wellington. Here too the Greenland tar, a fiercer guest, Claims a brief hour of riot, not of rest; swords; With scornful laugh the mortal pang defied, And blest their gods that they in battle died. Such were the sires of Zetland's simple race, Proves each wild frolic that in wine And still the eye may faint resemblance And wakes the land with brawls and In the blue eye, tall form, proportion fair, boisterous mirth. A sadder sight on yon poor vessel's The limbs athletic, and the long light hair prow The captive Norseman sits in silent (Such was the mien, as Scald and Min And eyes the flags of Britain as they Of fair-hair'd Harold, first of Norway's flow. Kings); Ilard fate of war, which bade her ter- But, their high deeds to scale these crags confined, rors sway a prey; His destined course, and seize so mean Their only warfare is with waves and wind. Why should I talk of Mousa's castled Though bold in the seas of the North coast? Why of the horrors of the Sumburgh Rost? to assail The morse and the sea-horse, the grampus and whale. If your grace thinks I'm writing the thing that is not, May not these bald disjointed lines rattling diceWhile down the cabin skylight lessen- (He's not from our clan, though his ing shine merits deserve it, The rays, and eve is chased with mirth But springs, I'm informed, from the and wine? Scotts of Scotstarvet`; Imagined, while down Mousa's desert He question'd the folks who beheld it Our well-trimm'd vessel urged her But they differ'd confoundedly as to And bade her bowsprit kiss the foamy That it seem'd like the keel of a ship, You will please be inform'd that they And direct me to send it-by sea or It is January two years, the Zetland The season, I'm told, is nigh over, but folks say, Since they saw the last Kraken in Scalloway bay; He lay in the offing a fortnight or more, But the devil a Zetlander put from the shore, still I could get you one fit for the lake at Indeed, as to whales, there's no need Since one day last fortnight two hundred and fifty, Pursued by seven Orkneymen's boats and no more, Betwixt Truffness and Luffness were drawn on the shore! You'll ask if I saw this same wonderful sight; I own that I did not, but easily might For this mighty shoal of leviathans lay On our lee-beam a mile, in the loop of the bay, And the islesmen of Sanda were all at the spoil, And flinching so term it the blubber to boil; Ye spirits of lavender, drown the reflection That awakes at the thoughts of this odorous dissection). To see this huge marvel full fain would we go, But Wilson, the wind, and the current, FAREWELL to Mackenneth, great Earl of the North, said no. We have now got to Kirkwall, and The Lord of Lochcarron, Glenshiel, needs I must stare and Seaforth; When I think that in verse I have To the Chieftain this morning his once call'd it fair; course who began, 'Tis a base little borough, both dirty Launching forth on the billows his and mean. There is nothing to hear, and there's nought to be seen, Save a church, where, of old times, a prelate harangued, And a palace that's built by an earl that was hang'd. But, farewell to Kirkwall-aboard we are going, The anchor's a-peak, and the breezes are blowing; Our commodore calls all his band to their places, And 'tis time to release you-good night to your Graces! bark like a swan. For a far foreign land he has hoisted his sail, Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail! O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew, May her captain be skilful, her mariners true, In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil, Though the whirlwind should rise, and the ocean should boil: On the brave vessel's gunnel I drank his bonail1, And farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail! 1 Bon-alles. Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet southland gale! But no bard was there left in the land of the Gael Like the sighs of his people, breathe To lament for Mackenzie, last Chief Be his pilot experienced, and trusty, And teach thy wild mountains to join To measure the seas and to study That laments for Mackenzie, last Chief Now mute on thy mountains, O Albyn, Thy sons rose around thee in light are heard Nor the voice of the song, nor the harp of the bard; and in love, All a father could hope, all a friend could approve; Or its strings are but waked by the What 'vails it the tale of thy sorrows As they mourn for Mackenzie, last Chief In the spring-time of youth and of His hand on the harp of the ancient And thou, gentle Dame, who must should cast, bear, to thy grief, cares of a Chief, And bid its wild numbers mix high For thy clan and thy country the with the blast; Whom brief rolling moons in six changes have left, Of thy husband, and father, and brethren bereft, To thine ear of affection, how sad is the hail, That salutes thee the Heir of the line of Kintail! WAR SONG OF LACHLAN, HIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN. (1815.) (From the Gaelic.) A WEARY month has wander'd o'er Since last we parted on the shore; Heaven! that I saw thee, love, once more, Safe on that shore again! 'Twas valiant Lachlan gave the wordLachlan, of many a galley lord: He call'd his kindred bands on board, And launch'd them on the main. Clan-Gillian is to ocean gone— In many a bloody broil : Clan-Gillian drives the spoil. Woe to the hills that shall rebound Our banner'd bagpipes' maddening sound; Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round Shall shake their inmost cell. Woe to the bark whose crew shall gaze Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays! The fools might face the lightning's blaze As wisely and as well! SAINT CLOUD. (Paris, September 5, 1815.) SOFTspread the southern summer night Her veil of darksome blue; Ten thousand stars combined to light The evening breezes gently sigh'd, And wreck of sweet Saint Cloud. The drum's deep roll was heard afar, The startled Naiads from the shade We sate upon its steps of stone, Nor could its silence rue, The echoes of Saint Cloud. Slow Seine might hear each lovely note Prolong'd from fair Saint Cloud. And sure a melody more sweet His waters never knew, Though music's self was wont to meet With Princes at Saint Cloud. Nor then, with more delighted ear, The circle round her drew, Than ours, when gather'd round to hear Our songstress at Saint Cloud. Few happy hours poor mortals pass,— Then give those hours their due, And rank among the foremost class Our evenings at Saint Cloud. |