LACHIN Y GAIR.*

(Set to Music by SIR HENRY BISHOP.)

A

WAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!

In you let the minions of luxury rove; Restore me the rocks, where the snow

flake reposes,

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love; Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war; Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.

* Pronounced in the Erse, Loch na Garr.-ED.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd ; My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd,

As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade ; I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.

"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?” Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale. Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car:

Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.

"Ill-starr'd, though brave, did no visions foreboding Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?" Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause :

Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber,
You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar;
The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number,
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.

Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!

:

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr !

WEET girl, though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain.

I would not say, " I love," but still
My senses struggle with my will:

In vain, to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt ;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps this is not love, but yet

Our meeting I can ne'er forget.

What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke;

The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels:

Deceit the guilty lips impart,

And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul's interpreters, the eyes,

Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft conversed,
And all our bosoms felt rehearsed,
No spirit, from within, reproved us,
Say rather, "'twas the spirit moved us."
Though what they utter'd I repress,
Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess;
For as on thee my memory ponders,
Perchance to me thine also wanders.
This for myself, at least I'll say,

Thy form appears through night, through day: Awake, with it my fancy teems;

In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams :

The vision charms the hours away,

And bids me curse Aurora's ray

For breaking slumbers of delight

Which make me wish for endless night.