HEATHER LAYS. 



The Heather 



O sweet is the breath of the heather 



On braes of the Highlands that blows ; 



rich is its bloom when at evening 



The hills glow in purple and rose. 



1 sit on the slopes of Loch Etive, 



The heather is up to my knee; 

 I look to the west where the islands 

 Arise from the far gloaming sea. 



The peak of the mighty Ben Cruachan 

 Above me soars up in the mist ; 



Below, by the waters of Etive, 



The feet of the proud one are kist. 



I see the grey strength of Dunstaffnage 

 Keeping wars on the way of the seas, 



And faintly the roaring of Connal 

 Is heard in the lull of the breeze. 



Here, lapped in the stillness of Nature, 

 Afar from the dwellings of men, 



My spirit is rapt by the magic 



That breathes over mountain and glen. 



Around are the footprints of Fingal, 

 And Ossian, the last of his race ; 



Here Dermid and Oscar and Fillan 



Have wakened the storm of the chase. 



2*5 



