When weary with mirth and the dance they invite me, To play them the wail of "Lochaber no more."

They ne'er saw the tempest in Glen Avin gather,
Nor heard the storm shrieking round Colansay's

shore,

Nor felt the cliffs quake 'neath the tramp of the thunder,

Nor heard the hills join in the mighty uproar.

And still as day fades o'er the weary Atlantic,

To brighten the hills that looked lovely of yore, I seek the lone lake beach and play till the waters And pine forests ring with "Lochaber no more."

X.

Thus the years with Donald sped,
Till his health and strength were fled;
Time had changed his flowing hair,
Furrowed deep his forehead fair;
But tho' old, and blind, and maim,
Yet his heart was still the same;
But 'twas plainer every day,
He was wearing fast away,-

All his wanderings and his woes,
Swiftly drawing to a close.

Well I mind of all that passed,
When I went to see him last,
On his bed I found him lying,
And the poor old man was dying,
With no one to soothe or guide him,
Not a living soul beside him;
Only Fleetfoot-faithful hound!
Met me with a welcome bound,
Licked my hand, and led the way,
To where his dying master lay:
Placed his paws upon the bed,
With a loving kind of dread-
Looked with the reverence of his race,

In his dying master's face;

Asked me with his anxious eye

Will he live, or will he die ;

When he saw me shake my head,

Down he lay beside the bed,

And he whined so long and low,

That mine eyes did overflow.

66

Down, Fleet, down," the old man said, "Let us walk with noiseless tread,

Yonder herd of fallow deer

Know not that the hunter's near."

But his brain was wandering fast
From the present to the past;
Now he talked of other times,
Singing snatches of old rhymes;
In a quick and hurried tone,
This disjointed talk went on.

"Hush! the hills are calling on me,

Their great spirit is upon me;
Listen! that is old Ben More,
Hush! that's Corybrechtan's roar;
See! a gleam of light is shed
Afar upon Bennevis head :
There! 'tis on Benlomond now,

The glory's resting on his brow;
From his locks the gold is streaming,
And his purple mantle's gleaming,
The crimson and the amber rest
On the deep folds of his vest,
And still anon some isle of blue,
Is for a moment heaving through.

"The clouds are rolling fast away, The dark is dappling into day, Come my love we are aweary, Of these woods so lone and dreary, We have tarried far too long, From the land of love and song. Ah! they told me thou wert dead, By the lone St. Lawrence laid; And our children, sons and daughters, Gone like music on the waters ; Bring my staff, let us away,

To the land of mountains gray,

Never, never more to roam,

From our "native Highland home."

XI.

He seemed as if about to rise,

When suddenly he closed his eyes,

And his spirit passed away

From its weary house of clay.

XII.

After all thy toil and cumber,

Sweetly, Donald, may'st thou slumber,

And thy little tragedy,

Will not wholly pass away;
For there were, even in thee,
Gleams of a divinity.
Longings, aspirations high,
After things which cannot die.
O! thy soul was like thy land,
Stern and gloomy, great and grand,
Yet each yawning gulf between,
Had its nooks of sweetest green :
Little flowers surpassing fair,

Flowers that bloom no other where

Little natives of the rock,

Smiling midst the thunder shock; Then the rainbow gleams of glory, Hanging from the chasms hoary, Dearer for each savage sound,

And the desolation round.

XII.

Much remains still to be told,
Of those men and times of old,
Of the changes in our days,

From their simple honest ways;