Puslapio vaizdai

If on windy days the Raven

Gambol like a dancing skiff,

Not the less she loves her haven

In the bosom of the cliff.

Though the Sea-horse in the Ocean
Own no dear domestic cave,

Yet he slumbers - by the motion
Rocked of many a gentle wave.

The fleet Ostrich, till day closes
Vagrant over Desert sands,
Brooding on her eggs reposes

When chill night that care demands.

Day and night my toils redouble,

Never nearer to the goal;

Night and day, I feel the trouble

Of the Wanderer in my soul.






SEVEN Daughters had Lord Archibald,
All Children of one Mother:

I could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A Garland of seven Lilies wrought!
Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
Their Father, took of them no thought,

He loved the Wars so well.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,

And from the shores of Erin,

Across the wave, a Rover brave
To Binnorie is steering:

Right onward to the Scottish strand

The gallant ship is borne;

The Warriors leap upon the land,

And hark! the Leader of the Band

Hath blown his bugle horn.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The Solitude of Binnorie.

Beside a Grotto of their own,

With boughs above them closing,

The Seven are laid, and in the shade They lie like Fawns reposing.

But now, upstarting with affright

At noise of Man and Steed,
Away they fly to left, to right—
Of your fair household, Father Knight,
Methinks you take small heed!
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
And, over Hill and Hollow,

With menace proud, and insult loud,

The youthful Rovers follow.

Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam: Enough for him to find

The empty House when he comes home; For us your yellow ringlets comb,

For us be fair and kind!"

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The Solitude of Binnorie.

Some close behind, some side by side,
Like clouds in stormy weather,

They run, and cry, "Nay let us die,

And let us die together."

A Lake was near; the shore was steep;

There never foot had been;

They ran, and with a desperate leap
Together plunged into the deep,

Nor ever more were seen.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The Stream that flows out of the Lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little Islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The Fishers say, those Sisters fair
By Faeries are all buried there,
And there together sleep.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

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