XXXV111 PROCEEDINGS—PERTHSHIRE SOCIETY OF NATURAL SCIENCE. 
Till all the heights in sunlit glory shone, 
And, like the music of the spheres, was heard 
On every side our Chief’s awakening word. 
Each from his drowsy couch the warriors sprung, 
Our Cairn Master stern, our Poet—brave John Young,— 
The lovers of the beasts in earth and air, 
The lovers of the flowers—they all were there ; 
Whilst silently, with lowering brow, and heart 
Filled with revenge, dark Morpheus stood apart, 
Cursing the word that broke his spell too soon, 
And woke each warrior six good hours from noon. 
All hurrying to and fro, some few near late ; 
“ Get breakfast ready—quick ! we cannot wait!” 
While sleepy wives turn round, and hate the hour 
Which calls their husbands to the mountain bower 
To serve the altar of the hill-top flower. 
They (not the husbands, but the wives I mean) 
Were never asked to climb the hill, I ween. 
But breakfast must be ready, and the cup 
With sparkling mountain dew be filled up, 
And rest must be forsaken till the men 
Haste to the train and seek the mountain glen. 
The hot sun floodeth all the treeless track, 
From which long since hath soared the sweet-voiced lark, 
To plunge into the splendour of the sky 
And swim in ether, or untired to fly 
Up to the mansions where all musics dwell, 
And, listening, learn in fuller notes to swell 
Her next day’s song. All hot, but still untrod 
Half of the weary way, and tired heads nod, 
And Morpheus smiles. “ Rest not 1” our Chieftain cries. 
“ Quit ye like men, away with childish sighs !"’ 
One draught of mountain dew—like a new man 
Steps out each warrior of the mountain clan, 
Till, in a silence deep, the warriors stop, 
For now, at last, they’ve reached the mountain top ! 
Upon the cairn grey the Cairn Master sat, 
Whilst each man there stood silent ’neath his hat, 
And eyed with wistful eyes the well-stored cup 
Which was with mountain dew fresh filled up. 
They eyed the cup, the Master eyed his men ; 
He held the Quaich, he paused a little—then 
A shout of manly voices rent the air 
And echoed down the hillside stern and bare ! 
Not for bright colour, gaudy hue, 
Nor scarlet ’broidery, deepest blue, 
Nor sweetest scent, we worship you. 
Salix herbacea floreat ! 
Not where fair ladies crowd the street, 
Trimming a hat or jacket neat, 
In fashion never thee we meet. 
Salix herbacea floreat! 
