Classic Poem

The honour o'er each hill
Hath Ben Dorain;
Scene, to me, the sweetest still
That day dawns upon:
Its long moor's level way,
And its nooks whence wild deer stray,
To the lustre on the brae
Oft I 've lauded them.

Dear to me its dusky boughs,
In the wood where green grass grows,
And the stately herd repose,
Or there wander slow;
But the troops with bellies white,
When the chase comes into sight,
Then I love to watch their flight,
Going nosily.

The stag is airy, brisk, and light,
And no pomp has he;
Though his garb's the fashion quite,
Never haughty he:
Yet a mantle's round him spread,
Not soon threadbare, then shed,
And its hue as wax is red —
Fairly clothing him.

The delight I felt to rise
At the morning's call!
And to see the troops I prize
The hills thronging all:
Ten score with stately tread,
And with light uplifted head,
Quite unpampered there that fed,
Fond and fawning all.

Lightsomely there came
From each clean and shapely frame,
Through their murmuring lips, a tame
Chant, with drawling fall.
In the pool one rolled a low —
With the hind one played the beau,
As she trotted to and fro,
Looking saucily.

I would rather have the deer
Gasping moaningly,
Than all Erin's songs to hear
Sung melodiously;
For above the finest bass
Hath the stag's sweet voice a grace,
As he bellows on the face
Of Ben Dorain.

Loud and long he gives a roar
From his very inmost core,
Which is heard behind, before,
Far and fallingly;
But the hind of softer notes,
With her calf that near her trots,
Match each other's tuneful throats,
Crying longingly.

Her eye's soft and tender ray
With no flaw in it,
O'er whose lid the brow is gray,
Guides her wandering feet:
Very well she walks, and bold,
Lively o'er the russet wold,
Tripping from her desert hold
Most undauntingly.

Faultless is her pace,
And her leap is full of grace —
Ha! the last when in the race
Never saw I her:
When she takes yon startled stride,
Nor once turns her head aside,
Aught to match her hasty pride
Is not known to me.

But now she's on the heath,
As she ought to be,
Where the tender grass she seeth,
Growing dawtily;
The dry bent, the moor grass bare,
With the sappy herbs are there,
That make fat, and full, and fair,
Her plump quarters all.

And those little wells are nigh,
Where the water-cresses lie,
Above wine she likes to try
Their waves' solacing;
Of the rye-grass, twisted rows,
On the rude hill side it grows,
Than of rarest festal shows,
Is she fonder far.

The choice increase of the earth
Forms her joyous treat;
The primrose, St John's wort,
Tops of gowans sweet,
The new buds of the groves,
The soft heath o'er which she roves,
Are the tit-bits that she loves,
With good cause too.

For speckled, spotted, rare,
Tall, and fine, and fair,
From such food before her there
She grows sonsily;
And it is still the surest mean
To cure the weak ones and the lean,
Who for any time have been
Wasted, wan, and low.

Soon it would clothe their back
With the garb which most they lack —
That rich fat, which they can pack
Most commodiously.

She's a flighty young hind
When leaves ward her,
Nearer her haunts where they bind
The brae border:
Lightsome and urbane
Is her gay heart, free of stain,
Tho' rash head and somewhat vain —
Somewhat thoughtless.

Yet her form, so full of grace,
She keeps hiding in a place,
Where the green glen shows no trace
Of a falling off;
But she's so healthy, and so clean —
So chaste where'er she's seen —
Should you kiss her lips, I ween
'Twould not cause you shame.

Greatly prized is she, I know,
By the stag with crested brow,
Whose thundering hoofs around him throw
Such a saucy sound;
When with him she meets the view
Red and yellow in her hue,
And of virtues not a few
That belong to her,
Then too is she free of fear,
And in speed without a peer,
And the primest ear to hear
In all Europe's hers.

Oh! how sweetly they embrace,
Young and fawning,
When they gather to their place
In the gloaming;
There, till silent night is by,
Never terror comes them nigh,
While beneath the bush they lie —
Their known haunt of old.

Let the wild herd seek their bed,
Let them slumber, free of dread,
Where you mighty moor is spread,
Broad and brawly;
Where, with joy, I've often spied
The sun colour their red hide,
As they wandered in their pride
O'er Ben Dorain.