Right onward to the Scottish strand
The gallant ship is borne ;

The warriors leap upon the land,

And hark! the Leader of the band
Hath blown his bugle horn.

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

Beside a grotto of their own,
With boughs above them closing,
The Seven are laid, and in the shade
They lie like fawns reposing.
But now, upstarting with affright
At noise of man and steed,
Away they fly to left, to right-
Of your fair household, Father Knight,
Methinks you take small heed!
Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

Away the seven fair Campbells fly,

And, over hill and hollow,

With menace proud and insult loud,

The youthful Rovers follow.

Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam :

Enough for him to find

The empty house when he comes home;

For us your yellow ringlets comb,

For us be fair and kind!"

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

Some close behind, some side by side,

Like clouds in stormy weather,

They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die,
And let us die together."

A lake was near; the shore was steep;

There never foot had been;

They ran, and with a desperate leap
Together plunged into the deep,
Nor ever more were seen.

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully
The solitude of Binnorie!

The stream that flows out of the lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little Islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The fishers say, those Sisters fair
By fairies are all buried there,
And there together sleep.

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

THE STOCK-DOVE.

I HEARD a stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze;

He did not cease, but coo'd,- and coo'd;

And somewhat pensively he woo'd:

He sang of love with quiet blending,

Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith and inward glee;
That was the song-the song for me!

THERE WAS A BOY.

THERE was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliff's
And islands of Winander!-many a time,

At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting would he stand alone,
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
And there, with fingers interwove, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth.
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,

Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,

That they might answer him. And they would shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again,

Responsive to his call,-with quivering peals,
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild

Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced
That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill,
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise

Has carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received
Into the bosom of the steady lake.

This boy was taken from his mates, and died
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.
Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot,

The vale where he was born: the Churchyard hangs
Upon a slope above the village-school;

And there, along that bank, when I have passed
At evening, I believe that oftentimes

A long half-hour together I have stood
Mute-looking at the grave in which he lies!

TO THE CUCKOO.

() BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,

I hear thee and rejoice;

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,

Or but a wandering voice?

While I am lying on the grass,
Thy loud note smites my ear!
From hill to hill it seems to pass,

At once far off, and near!

I hear thee babbling to the vale

Of sunshine and of flowers;

And unto me thou bring'st a tale

Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same who in my school-boy days

I listened to; that cry

Which made me look a thousand ways

In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove

Through woods and on the green ;
And thou wert still a hope, a love ;
Still longed for, never seen!