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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 solitude of Binnorie.


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.


WHO fancied what a pretty sight
This Rock would be if edged around
With living snow-drops? circlet bright!
How glorious to this orchard-ground!
Who loved the little Rock, and set
Upon its head this coronet?

Was it the humour of a child?
Or rather of some gentle maid,

Whose brows, the day that she was styled
The shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed?
Of man mature, or matron sage?
Or old man toying with his age!

I asked 'twas whispered; The device
To each and all might well belong :
It is the Spirit of Paradise

That prompts such work, a Spirit strong,

That gives to all the self-same bent

Where life is wise and innocent.




ART thou the bird whom Man loves best,
The pious bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English Robin;

The bird that comes about our doors
When Autumn-winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,

And Russia far inland?

The bird, who by some name or other
All men who know thee call their brother,
The darling of children and men?
Could Father Adam * open his eyes
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.

* See Paradise Lost, Book XI., where Adam points out to Eve the ominous sign of the Eagle chasing "two Birds of gayest plume," and the gentle Hart and Hind pursued by their enemy.

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