Skye.

WITH Bruce and Ronald bides the tale.

To favouring winds they gave the sail,
Till Mull's dark headlands scarce they knew,
And Ardnamurchan's hills were blue.

But then the squalls blew close and hard,
And, fain to strike the galley's yard,

And take them to the oar,

With these rude seas, in weary plight,
They strove the livelong day and night,
Nor till the dawning had a sight

Of Skye's romantic shore.

Where Coolin stoops him to the west,
They saw upon his shivered crest.

The sun's arising gleam;

But such the labour and delay,

Ere they were moored in Scarigh bay,
(For calmer heaven compelled to stay,)
He shot a western beam.

Then Ronald said, “If true mine eye,
These are the savage wilds that lie
North of Strathnardill and Dunskye;
No human foot comes here,

And, since these adverse breezes blow,
If my good Liege love hunter's bow,
What hinders that on land we go,

And strike a mountain deer?
Allan, my Page, shall with us wend;
A bow full deftly can he bend,
And, if we meet a herd, may send

A shaft shall mend our cheer."-
Then each took bow and bolts in hand,
Their row-boat launched and leapt to land,
And left their skiff and train,

Where a wild stream, with headlong shock,
Came brawling down its bed of rock,
To mingle with the main.

A while their route they silent made,

As men who stalk for mountain deer,

Till the good Bruce to Ronald said,

"St. Mary! what a scene is here! I've traversed many a mountain-strand, Abroad and in my native land,

And it has been my lot to tread

Where safety more than pleasure led;

Thus, many a waste I've wandered o'er,

Clombe many a crag, crossed many a moor;
But, by my halidome,

Skye.

A scene so rude, so wild as this,

Yet so sublime in barrenness,

Ne'er did my wandering footsteps press,
Where'er I happed to roam."-

No marvel thus the Monarch spake;
For rarely human eye has known
A scene so stern as that dread lake,

With its dark ledge of barren stone.
Seems that primeval earthquake's sway
Hath rent a strange and shattered way
Through the rude bosom of the hill,
And that each naked precipice,
Sable ravine and dark abyss,

Tells of the outrage still.

The wildest glen, but this, can show
Some touch of Nature's genial glow:
On high Benmore green mosses grow,
And heathbells bud in deep Glencoe,
And copse on Cruchan-Ben;

But here, above, around, below,

On mountain or in glen,

Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower,

Nor aught of vegetative power,

The weary eye may ken.

For all is rocks at random thrown,

Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone,

As if were here denied