The cuckoo, hark! salutes the genial year,
Our travellers start its distant voice to hear;
Its curious lay to imitate all try,
The well-feign'd notes the hoary cliffs reply.
To Western Isles, the sun now homeward bends;
As day declines, our slow-paced journey ends;
Not so the pleasing toil :-the younger train
Search
every corner of the narrow plain;
While matrons mildly to their sheds repair,
With due dispatch to dress the frugal fare;
Around, the weary herds repose the while,
And round the blazing hearths the gay groups smile,
Unwearied on the heath-spread floor they play,
Then sleep profoundly till the dawn of day.
No more these joyous scenes of former times
Again return when Summer's sun high climbs,
And o'er th' aerial peaks pours down his beams
Along the windings of the nameless streams.
No more the hunter, stalking o'er the heath,
Sees gladly some green Airidh far beneath,
Where he might rest the while-and sure to meet
All-cheering welcome-kindly press'd to eat
Of viands rural, oat-cake, milk, and cheese;
Regaled, the hunter then reclined at ease;
Soon as returning strength his nerves would brace
Along the craggy wilds he'd urge anew the chace.
But now, the deer and roe have disappear'd,
And, save where grouse are unmolested rear'd,
And well preserv'd from poacher's deadly aim,
Despoil'd, the Grampians seem of feather'd game.
No more the sable heath-cock bursts away
On whirring wing when peeps the dawn of day:
No more in plumy pride and stately air
Is seen the crested cappercailzie rare : (6)
The coy dull ptarmigan, and plover grey,
To falcons now are left the only prey:
The raven, carion-gorged, croaks to his nest,
The blood-stain'd eagle sated towers to rest:
No more the snowy swan sails on arch'd wing
In graceful pride the lake, in early spring :
Save, where the wild-duck builds her secret nest
Lined with the downy velvet of her breast;
Or where the coot its artless structure weaves
Among the sedges of dry flags and leaves;
Or, where the slow-wing'd crane ascends on high,
Or lonely bittern creaks her harsher cry;
No feather'd tribes disporting now appear
To mark the seasons of the circling year!-
No more the wind-hoof'd hart, the hind and fawn
Bound o'er the mountain's brow, or skim the lawn;
Their wonted haunts polluted, now they fly,
And hopeless, pine in secret, droop and die.-
Ah! did the ill rest there-all yet were well—
Speak ye disconsolate! who best can tell,
Ye wretched wanderers-without a home
Turned out of your possessions-left to roam
The world's wide wilderness-a void most drear!
'Twould melt a heart of adamant to hear.
A father's moan, a mother's frantic scream,
The cry of innocents, who little dream
What woes await them!-from their kindred torn,
Outcasts neglected, helpless and forlorn!
Yet, midst the cheerless gloom doth Hope remain?
Lo where she points beyond the western main-
Ah! sad alternative!-to go?-to stay?
Stern famine's aspect !-bread-but far away
IV. What means yon gathering vast that crowds the
Whose voice ascends like ocean's distant roar?
Is it a day of mirth-a feast of joy?
Ah no! Fair prospects, false as fair decoy
Th' unwary multitude to western climes,
In hopes to taste the sweets of former times.
But, O deluded throng! ye little know
What poignant hardships you must undergo;
To gain subsistence, youth and strength must waste,
The bread of idle ease you ne'er shall taste;
Hard is your toil beneath those sultry skies,
In vain ye wipe the brow that never dries!
Behold! the throng ascend the vessel's side-
It heaves now onward thro' the swelling tide.
Far in the distance, as the sun departs,
They view their native hills with aching hearts!
Ye willing exiles! speak who best can tell,
What pangs are felt to bid a long farewell
To all most dear left on a native shore,
In doubt if e'er you shall behold them more;
What anguish keen distends the heaving breast
Of him who looks his last, and mournful sinks to rest!'Tis midnight drear-Deep silence reigns around, And mariners appall'd start at each sound;
While signs portentous, but too sure presage,
The brooding tempest's wide destructive rage:
Sound sleep th' unconscious emigrants the while-
The sleep of death shall soon their cares beguile!
The storm commences-now it rages high,
Wild foaming billows mingle with the sky,
And while white bursting waves the ship's prow dash,
The lightning's livid gleams now quickly flash :
Thunders peal round th' horizon's awful gloom,
And ocean yawns a wide vast watery tomb ;—
Down, headlong down, while surgy wild waves roar,
The vessel plunges-and is seen no more!
Behold amidst the elements' dire war
A sail to leeward, labouring onward far!
Now hid from view by yon huge billowy steep,
She braves the dangers of the raging deep,
Again emerging, upright climbs the wave,
And 'scapes the horrors of a yawning grave!
Whence speeds the storm-toss'd bark? From western isles,
Her crew the dupe of mercenary wiles! (6)
Decoy'd from home, for Trans-Atlantic shores
Embark'd they with their all, their well-earn'd stores!—
The storm abates apace. The sca-sick throng
(While all the pangs of death their ills prolong,
Lock'd under hatches fast lie panting there)
Implore in vain to breathe in open air!
Meanwhile the mariners unfurl the sails:
The vessel glides along on gentle gales.
Mid-Summer's fervid noon now reigns supreme;
Light airs arise not,-heated in extreme
Th' horizon lurid, seems one smouldering fire:
And when to night-repose the crew retire,
They sleepless languish, pent in narrow space (7)
Between the steaming decks, like Afric's ill-starr'd race!
The Febrile Fiend high on the top-mast smiles,
eyes askance the sickening seaman's toils;
Then darts a look amongst the crew below,
And laughs to scorn their keen increasing woe!
No skilful arm to counteract his power
On board appears-ah no! in evil hour
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