108 THE SPIRIT OF GLENCROE. 



tecting the rock-ousel, felt sorry that my charm was dis- 

 solved. 



I had once or twice in spring met with the rock-ousel 

 on the moors, but had never heard it make any call be- 

 yond a harsh grating chirp. 



The little incident mentioned above gave rise to the 

 following stanzas, which I may be excused for in- 

 serting : 



THE heather-bell was blooming fair, 

 And gaily waved the yellow broom, 



And many a wild-flow'r bright and rare 

 Lent to the breeze its choice perfume. 



But lonely, lonely was the scene, 



Grim rose the heights of dark Glencroe, 



And, though the sunbeam smiled between, 

 They scarce return'd a kindlier glow. 



Above me frown'd the jutting rock, 

 The wimpling burn beside me play'd ; 



Around me stared the mountain flock, 



And ask'd " Who dared their rights invade ? " 



