The bonnie Doon, and Cassilis Downan's green,
The "Twa Brigs," flyting almost side by side,
The ancient town of Ayr, and scene by scene
Of Tam O'Shanter's ride.
And on our left lay Arran, sharp and clear,
Its Holy Isle and hidden loch behind,
Within whose reaches ships for shelter steer,
When storms are in the wind.
But Goatfell, with the tattered Arran peaks,
Took all our eyes, piled up so sheer and high:
'T was Nature's easel, this her freak of freaks,
Her canvas the blue sky.
A sudden cloud came o'er them, and anon
The Arran hills in dark-blue blackness lay;
Surely not all the Highlands can put on
So grim a scowl as they!
They were alive with passion; we beheld
Their knitting eyebrows and their gleaming eyes; But soon their dark brows lifted, and they smiled Grandly at our surprise.
Then, also on our left, the Isle of Bute;
So like to what a paradise should be,
That all declared the name would better suit
With an accented é.
There Kean, the tragic, built himself a cot
Beside its little lake, a sylvan scene,
And thought to cast in solitude his lot:
Alas for tragic Kean!
As well expect the lion to turn a hound,
The eagle to forget the soaring wing;
He came to Bute and solitude, but found
The play was still the thing.
Upon our right the Cumbraes, sister isles,
Were passed with small remark, though fairy splores,
And devil-builded dikes, and warlock wiles
Are rife about their shores.
Then landward Largs, with its old battle-field,
Where Alexander fought the invading Dane,
And made him the last hope of conquest yield,
Never to come again.
But all around us beauty infinite,
And history, and old tradition vied
Which should be minister of most delight,
And preached from side to side;
Till Greenock's noisy piers lay on our beam,
And luggage dragged us back to common earth,
And finger-pointing porters broke our dream
DMIRING nature's simple charms,
I left my humble home,
Awhile my country's peaceful plain
With pilgrim step to roam:
I marked the leafy summer wave
On flowing Irvine's side,
But richer far's the robe she wears
Within the vale of Clyde.
I roamed the braes of bonnie Doon,
The winding banks of Ayr,
Where flutters many a small bird gay,
Blooms many a floweret fair;
But dearer far to me the stem
That once was Calder's pride,
And blossoms now, the fairest flower,
Within the vale of Clyde.
Avaunt! thou life-repressing north!
Ye withering east-winds too!
But come, thou all-reviving west,
Breathe soft thy genial dew;
Until at length, in peaceful age,
This lovely flowerèt shed
Its last green leaf upon my tomb,
Within the vale of Clyde.
ORD of the vale! astounding flood;
The dullest leaf in this thick wood Quakes, conscious of thy power; The caves reply with hollow moan; And vibrates, to its central stone, Yon time-cemented tower!
And yet how fair the rural scene!
For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been
Beneficent as strong;
Pleased in refreshing dews to steep
The little, trembling flowers that peep
Thy shelving rocks among.
Hence all who love their country love
To look on thee, delight to rove
Where they thy voice can hear;
And to the patriot-warrior's shade,
Lord of the vale! to heroes laid
In dust, that voice is dear!
Along thy banks, at dead of night,
Sweeps visibly the Wallace wight;
Or stands, in warlike vest,
Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam,
A champion worthy of the stream,
Yon gray tower's living crest!
But clouds and envious darkness hide
A form not doubtfully descried ; -
Their transient mission o'er,
O, say to what blind region flee
These shapes of awful fantasy?
To what untrodden shore?
Less than divine command they spurn;
But this we from the mountains learn,
And this the valleys show;
That never will they deign to hold
Communion where the heart is cold
To human weal and woe.
The man of abject soul in vain
Shall walk the Marathonian plain;
Or thrid the shadowy gloom
That still invests the guardian Pass,
Where stood, sublime, Leonidas
Devoted to the tomb.
And let no slave his head incline,
Or kneel, before the votive shrine
By Uri's lake, where Tell
Leapt, from his storm-vext boat, to land,
Heaven's instrument, for by his hand
That day the tyrant fell.
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