The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Ii Part 41

[131] Here follows a catalogue of rival beauties, with satirical descriptions. Cowley has such a list, which may possibly have been in the poet's eye.

SIUBHAL.

Away with all, away with all, Away with all but Morag, A maid whose grace and mensefulness Still carries all before it.

You shall not find her marrow, For beauty without furrow, Though you search the islands thorough From Muile[132] to the Lewis; So modest is each feature, So void of pride her nature, And every inch of stature To perfect grace so true is.[133]

O that drift, like a pillow, We madden to share it; O that white of the lily, 'Tis pa.s.sion to near it; Every charm in a cl.u.s.ter, The rose adds its l.u.s.tre-- Can it be but such muster Should banish the Spirit!

URLAR.

We would strike the note of joy In the morning, The dawn with its orangery The hill-tops adorning.

To bush and fell resorting, While the shades conceal'd our courting, Would not be lack of sporting Or gleeful _phrenesie_; Like the roebuck and his mate, In their woodland haunts elate The race we would debate Around the tendril tree.

SIUBHAL.

Thou bright star of maidens, A beam without haze, No murkiness saddens, No disk-spot bewrays.

The swan-down to feeling, The snow of the gaillin,[134]

Thy limbs all excelling, Unite to amaze.

The queen, I would name thee, Of maidenly muster; Thy stem is so seemly, So rich is its cl.u.s.ter Of members complete, Adroit at each feat, And thy temper so sweet, Without banning or bl.u.s.ter.

My grief has press'd on Since the vision of Morag, As the heavy millstone On the cross-tree that bore it.

In vain the world over, Seek her match may the rover; A shaft, thy poor lover, First struck overpowering.

When thy ringlets of gold, With the crooks of their fold, Thy neck-wards were roll'd All weavy and showering.

Like stars that are ring'd, Like gems that are string'd Are those locks, while, as wing'd From the sun, blends a ray Of his yellowest beams; And the gold of his gleams Behold how he streams 'Mid those tresses to play.

In thy limbs like the canna,[135]

Thy cinnamon kiss, Thy bright kirtle, we ken a'

New phnix of bliss.

In thy sweetness of tone, All the woman we own, Nor a sneer nor a frown On thy features appear; When the crowd is in motion For Sabbath devotion,[136]

As an angel, arose on Their vision, my fair With her meekness of grace, And the flakes of her dress, As they stream, might express Such loveliness there.

When endow'd at thy birth We marvel that earth From its mould, should yield worth Of a fas.h.i.+on so rare.

URLAR.

I never dream'd would sink On a peak that mounts world's brink, Of sunlight, such a blink, Morag! as thine.

As the charmings of a spell, Working in their cell, So dissolves the heart where dwell Thy graces divine.

SIUBHAL.

Come, counsel me, my comrades, While dizzy fancy lingers, Did ever flute become, lads, The motion of such fingers?

Did ever isle or Mor-hir,[137]

Or see or hear, before her, Such gracefulness, adore her Yet, woes me, how concealing From her I 've wedded, dare I?

Still, homeward bound, I tarry, And Jeanie's eye is weary, Her truant unrevealing.

The glow of love I feel, Not all the linns of Sheil, Nor Cruachan's snow avail To cool to congealing.[138]....

CRUNLUATH.

My very brain is humming, sirs, As a swarm of bees were b.u.mming, sirs, And I fear distraction 's coming, sirs, My pa.s.sion such a flame is.

My very eyes are blinding, sirs, Scarce giant mountains finding, sirs, Nor height nor distance minding, sirs, The crag, as Corrie, tame is....

[132] Mull.

[133] Morag's beauties are so exquisite, that all Europe, nay, the Pope would be inflamed to behold them. The pa.s.sage is omitted, though worthy of the satiric vein of Mephistopheles.

[134] The gannet, or the _stranger-bird_, from his foreign derivation and periodic visits to the Islands.

[135] A snowy gra.s.s, well known in the moors.

[136] _Lit._, On the day of devotion.

[137] The mainland, or _terra firma_, is called Morir by the islanders.

NEWS OF PRINCE CHARLES.

Though this, in some respects, may not rank high among Macdonald's compositions, it is one of the most natural and earnest. His appeal to the hesitating chiefs of Sleat and Dunvegan, is a curious specimen of indignation, suppressed by prudence, and of contempt disguised under the mask of civility.

Glad tidings for the Highlands!

To arms a ringing call-- Hammers storming, targets forming, Orb-like as a ball.[139]

Withers dismay the pale array, That guards the Hanoverian; a.s.surance sure the sea 's come o'er, The help is nigh we weary on.

From friendly east a breeze shall haste The fruit-freight of our prayer-- With thousands wight in baldrick white,[140]

A prince to do and dare; Stuart his name, his sire's the same, For his riffled crown appealing, Strong his right in, soon shall Britain Be humbled to the kneeling.

Strength never quell'd, and sword and s.h.i.+eld, And firearms play defiance; Forwards they fly, and still their cry, Is,[141] "Give us fles.h.!.+" like lions.

Make ready for your travel, Be sharp-set, and be willing, There will be a dreadful revel, And liquor red be spilling.

O, that each chief[142] whose warriors rife, Are burning for the slaughter, Would let their volley, like fire to holly, Blaze on the usurping traitor.

Full many a soldier arming, Is laggard in his spirit, E'er his blood the flag is warming Of the King that should inherit.

He may be loon or coward, That spur scarce touch would nearly-- The colours shew, he 's in a glow, Like the stubble of the barley.

Onward, gallants! onward speed ye, Flower and bulwark of the Gael; Like your flag-silks be ye ruddy, Rosy-red, and do not quail.

Fearless, artless, hawk-eyed, courteous, As your princely strain beseems, In your hands, alert for conflict, While the Spanish weapon gleams.-- Sweet the flapping of the bratach,[143]

Humming music to the gale; Stately steps the youthful gaisgeach,[144]

Proud the banner staff to bear.

A slas.h.i.+ng weapon on his thigh, He tends his charge unfearing; Nor slow, pursuers venturing nigh, To the gristle nostrils sheering.

Comes too, the wight, the clean, the tight, The finger white, the clever, he That gives the war-pipe his embrace To raise the storm of bravery.

A brisk and stirring, heart-inspiring Battle-sounding breeze of her Would stir the spirit of the clans To rake the heart of Lucifer.

March ye, without feint and dolour, By the banner of your clan, In your garb of many a colour, Quelling onset to a man.

Then, to see you swiftly baring From the sheath the manly glaive, Woe the brain-shed, woe the unsparing Marrow-showering of the brave!

Woe the clattering, weapon-battering Answering to the piobrach's yell!