Banishment
Alone on the hill-top,
Sadly and silently,
Downward on Islay
And over the sea—
I look and I wonder
How time hath deceived me:
A stranger in Muile
Who ne'er thought to be.
Ne'er thought it, my island!
Where rests the deep dark shade
Thy grand mossy mountains
For ages have made—
God bless thee, and prosper!
Thy chief of the sharp blade,
All over' these islands,
His fame never fade!
Never fade it, Sir Norman!
For well 'tis the right
Of thy name to win credit
In council or fight;
By wisdom, by shrewdness,
By spirit, by might,
By manliness, courage,
By daring, by sleight.
In council or fight, thy kindred
Know these should be thine—
Branch of Lochlin's wide-ruling
And king-bearing line!
And in Erin they know it—
Far over the brine:
No Earl would in Albin
Thy friendship decline.
Yes! the nobles of Erin
Thy titles well know,
To the honour and friendship
Of high and of low.
Born the deed-marks to follow,
Thy father did show,—
That friend of the noble—
That manliest foe.
That friend of the noble—
From him art thou heir
To virtues which Albin
Was proud to declare:
Crown'd the best of her chieftains
Long, long may'st thou wear
The blossoms paternal
His broad branches bare!
O banner'd Clan Ruari!
Whose, loss is my woe,
Of this chief who survives
May I ne'er hear he's low;
But, darling of mortals!
From him though I go,
Long the shapeliest, comeliest
Form may he show!
The shapeliest, comeliest,
Faultless in bearing—
Cheerful, cordial, and kind,
The red and white wearing,
Well looks the blue-eyed chief;
Blue, bright, and daring,
His eye o'er his red cheek shines,
Blue, bright, calmly daring.
His red cheek shines,
Like hip on the brier-tree,
'Neath the choicest of curly hair
Waving and free.
A warm hearth, a drinking cup,
Meet shall he see,
And a choice of good armour
Whoe'er visits thee.
Drinking-horns, trenchers bright,
And arms old and new;
Long, narrow-bladed swords,
Cold, clear, and blue—
These are seen in thy mansion,
With rifles and carbines, too;
And hempen-strung long-bows,
Of hard, healthy yew.
Long-bows and cross-bows,
With strings that well wear;
Arrows, with polish'd heads,
In quivers full and fair,
From the eagle's wing feather'd,
With silk fine and rare;
And guns dear to purchase—
Long slender—are there.
My heart's with thee, hero!
May Mary's son keep
My stripling who loves
The lone forest to sweep;
Rejoicing to feel there
The solitude deep
Of the long moor and valley,
And rough mountain steep.
The mountain steep searching
And rough rocky chains;
The old dogs he caresses,
The young dogs he restrains:
Then, soon from my chieftain's spear
The life blood rains
Of the red-hided deer or doe
And the green heather stains.
Fall the red stag, the white-bellied doe;
Then stand on the heather,
Thy gentle companions,
Well arm'd altogether,
Well taught on the hunter's craft,
Well skill'd in the weather;
They know the rough sea as well
As the green heather!
Sadly and silently,
Downward on Islay
And over the sea—
I look and I wonder
How time hath deceived me:
A stranger in Muile
Who ne'er thought to be.
Ne'er thought it, my island!
Where rests the deep dark shade
Thy grand mossy mountains
For ages have made—
God bless thee, and prosper!
Thy chief of the sharp blade,
All over' these islands,
His fame never fade!
Never fade it, Sir Norman!
For well 'tis the right
Of thy name to win credit
In council or fight;
By wisdom, by shrewdness,
By spirit, by might,
By manliness, courage,
By daring, by sleight.
In council or fight, thy kindred
Know these should be thine—
Branch of Lochlin's wide-ruling
And king-bearing line!
And in Erin they know it—
Far over the brine:
No Earl would in Albin
Thy friendship decline.
Yes! the nobles of Erin
Thy titles well know,
To the honour and friendship
Of high and of low.
Born the deed-marks to follow,
Thy father did show,—
That friend of the noble—
That manliest foe.
That friend of the noble—
From him art thou heir
To virtues which Albin
Was proud to declare:
Crown'd the best of her chieftains
Long, long may'st thou wear
The blossoms paternal
His broad branches bare!
O banner'd Clan Ruari!
Whose, loss is my woe,
Of this chief who survives
May I ne'er hear he's low;
But, darling of mortals!
From him though I go,
Long the shapeliest, comeliest
Form may he show!
The shapeliest, comeliest,
Faultless in bearing—
Cheerful, cordial, and kind,
The red and white wearing,
Well looks the blue-eyed chief;
Blue, bright, and daring,
His eye o'er his red cheek shines,
Blue, bright, calmly daring.
His red cheek shines,
Like hip on the brier-tree,
'Neath the choicest of curly hair
Waving and free.
A warm hearth, a drinking cup,
Meet shall he see,
And a choice of good armour
Whoe'er visits thee.
Drinking-horns, trenchers bright,
And arms old and new;
Long, narrow-bladed swords,
Cold, clear, and blue—
These are seen in thy mansion,
With rifles and carbines, too;
And hempen-strung long-bows,
Of hard, healthy yew.
Long-bows and cross-bows,
With strings that well wear;
Arrows, with polish'd heads,
In quivers full and fair,
From the eagle's wing feather'd,
With silk fine and rare;
And guns dear to purchase—
Long slender—are there.
My heart's with thee, hero!
May Mary's son keep
My stripling who loves
The lone forest to sweep;
Rejoicing to feel there
The solitude deep
Of the long moor and valley,
And rough mountain steep.
The mountain steep searching
And rough rocky chains;
The old dogs he caresses,
The young dogs he restrains:
Then, soon from my chieftain's spear
The life blood rains
Of the red-hided deer or doe
And the green heather stains.
Fall the red stag, the white-bellied doe;
Then stand on the heather,
Thy gentle companions,
Well arm'd altogether,
Well taught on the hunter's craft,
Well skill'd in the weather;
They know the rough sea as well
As the green heather!
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