Classic Poem

D ONALD B AN

I

'Twas here, upon this very spot,
Where weeds so wildly grow,
Old Donald's log-built cabin stood
Full thirty years ago.
Erect he was, and tall and fair,
The perfect type of man,
And Highland bards had sung of him
As stalwart Donald Ban.

He was a hunter in his youth,
Had travel'd far and wide,
And knew each hill and vale and stream
From John o' Groat's to Clyde.
And well he lov'd to sit and tell,
As well I lov'd to hear,
Of feats of strength and daring while
He tracked the fallow deer.

The spirit of the mighty hills
Within his breast he bore,
And how he loved to sit and sing
Their ballads o'er and o'er;
For he had treasur'd in his heart
The legends and the lays,
The loves, the joys, the smiles, the tears,
The voice of other days.

The fields where heroes fought and fell,
The graves wherein they sleep,
And many a mountain-robber's hold
Where captives used to weep;
The mossy cairns by strath and stream,
Renown'd in Highland lay —
A strange old world of shade and seer
Has pass'd with him away.

And he had gazed on Nature's face,
Until his spirit caught
Some strange mysterious whispers from
The inner world of thought.
He lov'd the things far deepest which
He could not understand,
And had a strange, wild worship of
The gloomy and the grand.

Each mountain had a heart and soul,
A language of its own —
A grand old monarch seated there
Upon his cloud-built throne.

The wailing of the winter winds,
The whispers of the glen,
Were living and immortal things
A-watching mortal men.

And how the old man griev'd to think
That he should hear no more
The earthquake wrestling with the hills,
Or Corrybrechtan's roar.

II

Ah! poor Donald, who can tell
The heart-break of your last farewell?
When Oppression's iron hand
Drove you from that mountain land,
Forced you from the strath and fell,
From the hills you loved so well;
When you took your last adieu
Of Benlomond in the blue,
Looked upon Ben Nevis hoar,
Never to behold him more;
Last the old roof-tree did view,
That so long had sheltered you —
You and all your stalwart race —
Set in flames before your face;
And beheld the lofty pine,
Emblem of the honor'd line,
Fell'd without remorse or shame —
Fell'd to feed the wasting flame
That consumed your humble dwelling;
Who can blame your heart for swelling?
Who condemn the blows you gave
To the tyrant and his slave?
Who condemn the curse that sprung
Ever ready from your tongue,
Or the imprecations deep
That from out your heart would leap
When you thought upon that day
And the blue hills far away,
Or the tears that would o'erflow
When you told that tale of woe?

III

Often at the close of eve
He would sit him down and grieve,
Then he'd take his pipes and play
Till his heart was far away;
On the spirit of the strain,
Wafted to the hills again;
Or, while tears his eyelids wet,
Sing this sweet song of regret:

IV

Why Left I My Country

" Why left I my country, why did I forsake
The land of the hill for the land of the lake?
These plains are rich laden as summer's rich sky,
But give me the bare cliffs that tow'r to the sky;
Where the thunderer sits in the halls of the storm,
And the eagles are screaming on mighty Cairngorm!
Benledi! Benlomond! Benawe! Benvenue!
Old monarchs forever enthroned in the blue;
Ben Nevis! Benavin! — the brotherhood hoar
That shout through the midnight to mighty Ben More!
Tho' lovely this land of the lake and the tree,
Yet the land of the scarr'd cliff and mountain for me!
Each cairn has its story, each river its song,
And the burnies are wimpling to music along;
But here no old ballads the young bosom thrills,
No song has made sacred the forest and rills;
And often I croon o'er some old Scottish strain,
Till I'm roaming the hills of my country again.
And oh! may she ever be upright and brave,
And ne'er let her furrows be turn'd by a slave;
And ne'er may dishonor the blue bonnet stain,
Altho' I should ne'er wear the bonnet again. "

V

Hard was poor old Donald's fate:
In a strange land, desolate,
Scarcely had he crost the sea
When his son, the last of three,
He, the beautiful and brave,
Found an exile's nameless grave.
Then his wife, who was his pride,
At Point Saint Charles too early died,
And he made for her a grave
By the lone Saint Lawrence wave;
And at last, when all were gone,
Heartsick, homeless, wander'd on.
Still one comforter he found
In poor Fleetfoot, his staghound.
They had climbed the hills of heather
They had chased the deer together,
And together they would mourn
Over days ne'er to return.

VI

After wand'ring far and near,
Built he last a cabin here;
'Twas at least a kind of home,
From which he would never roam;
Hoped afflictions all would cease,
And he'd end his days in peace.
Ah! poor Donald! 'twas God's will
There was one affliction still
That was wanting to fill up
To the brim your bitter cup;
And it came in loss of sight,
Leaving you in endless night,
Helpless on a foreign shore,
Ne'er to see " Lochaber more. "

VII

For a little while he pined,
But, becoming more resign'd,
Then he wander'd far and wide,
With poor Fleetfoot for his guide.
In the Highland garb array'd,
On the Highland pipes he play'd.
Ever at the welcome sound
Youths and maidens gathered round —
More than fifty I have seen
Dancing barefoot on the green,
Tripping it so light and gay
To the merry tunes he'd play.
While he blew with might and main,
Looking almost young again,
Playing up the old strathspeys
With the heart of early days,
Then to see him, who could know
He had ever tasted woe?

VIII

Thus for many years he went
Round each backwoods settlement;
But, wherever he might roam,
Here was still his house and home.

Always, as the Autumn ended,
Ere the sleety show'rs descended,
When the leaves were red and sear
And the bitter days were near,
When the winds began to sigh,
And the birds away to fly,
And the frost came to the ground,
Donald's steps were homeward bound.
Long before he would appear,
Loud his pipe's note we could hear.
At the glad, the welcome sound,
All the neighbors gather'd round;
Many a young heart leap'd with joy,
Many a happy little boy
Bounded onward, glad to meet
Old companion, faithful Fleet.
Then would Donald sit and tell
Of the strange things that befell
At the places where he play'd,
Of the friends his music made,
Of the hearts touch'd by his strains,
Of his triumphs and his gains,
Always ending with this song,
In the woods remember'd long:

IX

The Old Highland Piper

Afar from the land of the mountain and heather,
An old Highland piper look'd sad o'er the sea,
And sigh'd o'er the time when the sound of his chanter
Was known from the Isles to the bank of the Dee.

And oft, as the shades of the night would foregather,
And day was forsaking the weary pine plains,
He sang of the hills of the dark purple heather,
The hills that so often re-echo'd his strains.

Oh! sad was the heart of the old Highland piper,
When forced from the hills of Lochaber away,
No more to behold the gigantic Benlomond,
Nor wander again on the banks of the Tay.

But still, as sleep comes to my lone, weary pillow,
I hear Corrybrechtan again in my dreams,
I see the blue peaks of the lone cliffs of Jura,
And wander again by her wild, dashing streams.

What tho' I must roam in the land of the stranger,
My heart's 'mong the hills of Lochaber the while;
Tho' welcom'd, ah! 'tis in the tongue of the Sassenach,
'Tis not the heart-welcome they give in Argyle.

They know not the heart of the old Highland piper,
And little they think that it bleeds to the core,
When, weary with mirth and the dance, they invite me
To play them the wail of " Lochaber no more. "

How little they know of the weight of affection
The scattered descendants of mighty Lochiel
Still bear in their bosom to aught that reminds them
Of the dark purple heather and land of the Gael.

They ne'er saw the tempest in Glen Avin gather,
Nor heard the storm shrieking round Colonsay's shore,
Nor felt the cliffs quake 'neath the tramp of the thunder,
Nor heard the hills join in the mighty uproar.

And little they know of the tie that still binds us —
A tie which the stranger, no, never can feel —
The love which we bear to the land left behind us,
The wounds of our parting which never can heal.

And still, as day fades o'er the placid Pacific,
To brighten the hills that look'd lovely of yore,
I seek the lone sea-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,
Furrow'd deep his forehead fair;
But tho' old and blind and maim,
Yet his heart was still the same.
But 'twas plainer ev'ry day
He was wearing fast away —
All his wand'rings and his woes
Drawing swiftly to a close.
Well I mind of all that pass'd
When I went to see him last.
On his bed I found him lying,
And the poor old man was dying;
No one near to soothe or guide him,
Not a living soul beside him:
Only Fleetfoot — faithful hound —
Met me with a welcome bound,
Lick'd my hand and led the way
Where his dying master lay;
Placed his paws upon the bed,
With a loving kind of dread;
Looked the rev'rence of his race
In his dying master's face;
Ask'd 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,
Whining there so long and low
That mine eyes did overflow.

" 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! "

Soon his brain was wandering fast
From the present to the past;
Now he talk'd of other times,
Singing snatches of old rimes.
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 Corrybrechtan's roar;
See! a gleam of light is shed
Afar upon Ben Nevis' 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 Saint 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 grey,
Never, never more to roam
From our native " Highland home." "

XI

He seem'd as if about to rise,
When suddenly he closed his eyes,
And his spirit pass'd away
From its weary house of clay.

XII

After all your toil and cumber,
Sweetly, Donald, may you slumber.
Your life's little tragedy
Shall not wholly pass away,
For there were, indeed, in thee
Gleams of a divinity,
Longings, aspirations high,
After things which cannot die.
And your soul was like your land,
Stern and gloomy, great and grand.
Yet each yawning gulf between
Had its nooks of sweetest green;
Little flow'rs, surpassing fair —
Flow'rs that bloom no other where —
Little natives of the rock,
Smiling 'midst the thunder-shock;
Had its rainbow-gleams of glory,
Hanging from the chasms hoary,
Dearer for each savage sound,
And the desolation round.

XIII

Much remains still to be told
Of these men and times of old —
Of the changes in our days
From their simple honest ways —
Of the quacks, on spoil intent,
That flock'd into our settlement —
Of the swarms of public robbers,
Speculators, and land jobbers —
Of the sorry set of teachers,
Of the bogus tribe of preachers,
Of the host of herb physicians,
And of cunning politicians.
But the sun has hid his face,
And the night draws on apace;
Shadows gather in the west,
Beast and bird are gone to rest.
With to-morrow we'll not fail
To resume our humble tale.