IOC A HIGHLAND BARd's LAMENT. 



And will our anguished hearts consent 



To cast aside the tartans free ; 

 And in the Saxon's garb be pent. 



Token of abject slavery. 

 Will not our sunk hearts, when they feel 



The pressure of his base array. 

 Back in the bosom wildly reel. 



And wither hastily away. 



We have consented ! we have spurned 



The tartan and the breezy plume. 

 And the bright steel of honour urned 



In silence and in gravelike gloom ; 

 Yet still our shrunken hearts are warm, 



Still thro' our frames the pulses roll. 

 Still the wild thought, commanding charm 



Of life, clings to the stricken soul. 



No more let worth and honour breathe 



Within our hearts, the prey of blight ; 

 No more let freedom's hand unsheathe 



The sword, upon our beamless sight. 

 Valour ^departed from the breast. 



The 'mountain-spirit passed away. 

 When heavily around us pressed 



The stranger's desolate array. 



Tread not the mountain paths, O Gael. 



Keep to the dull and level plain. 

 Let ne'er thy locks in ardour sail 



Upon the free-born breeze again ; 

 Lest its wild spirit, stern and pale, 



Should on thee cast its piercing eye. 

 And with a wild soul-freezing wail. 



Sweep thee in breathless horror by. 



Tread not the mountain's paths, O Gael, 



Lest the shrill, lonely, voice that lies 

 Within the dark mysterious vale. 



Should from its secret depths arise. 

 And send throughout thy frenzied soul 



The dark recital of thy shame, 

 And spectral visions o'er thee roll. 



Of all thy former fame ! 



W. Mayne. 



