Classic Poem

My own heart-fire is burning me,
I cannot be at rest;
My inclination turning me,
My joy is grown confessed;
Since song can be raised heartily,
I'll sing it sans delay,
And 'tis a glorious theme to handle,
Which could move my fantasy.

Don thou thy pleasing mantle,
Great Flower-dale of meads wide,
And let thy groves of stately trees
Bedeck themselves with pride;
Let the harp-like tuneful chorus
Of the mavis and cuckoo,
Singing welcome on the boughs to him,
His ears with rapture woo.

And, echo, from thy rock-hold,
Answer thou the heroes' voice,
Giving back the chanters' music
With a gladsome pleasant noise;
Let joys prolonged uncountable
Put welcome in thy bounds
For the courteous Chief of the Hectors,
Him cheering with glad sounds.

Sir Hector Roy of the warriors,
Fierce, terrible in mien —
Of the pipes, the pikes, the banners,
The ancestral arms, blue, keen;
Whose native trait was valorous feats,
With the weapon's master-claim,
We marvel not such heritage
Should follow close their name.

Thou Head-tree spread, magnificent,
The orchard's highest pride,
A thorn-bush art thou when aroused,
A hawk bold and blue-eyed;
A lion never panic-struck
In strife if brought to bay,
A rampart for thy friends art thou,
Not scaled without affray.

Choice chief of a heroic race,
Who'd shed blood on the field,
Who'd be mindful, shrewd and cautious,
In strife not weak to yield;
Destructive, bloody, keen-edged
In the struggle with the foe,
Fierce was the wrath of the Hectors,
Exploits unmatched they show.

A stalker on the Roughbounds thou
Of hinds that highest leap,
A small gun ne'er misfiring, dost
In hand, lock flawless, keep.
Thy supple men, fast-travelling,
Behind thee, unfatigued;
And sweet music were thy march-song
When thy mouth the march decreed.

Scarce in this age degenerate
Is this youth's likeness bold,
That brings back to my memory
And mind the age of gold;
The armour of those splendid men
Their persons hale would wear,
With a bearing healthy, valorous,
And a proper well-bred air.

But there's many a lord I'll name not
In great Alba of the bards,
Off up with their gold and silver,
'Mong strangers none regards;
Unless they sell their native claims,
Ere they return they're broke;
Had they followed thy example
Less loud their ruin spoke.

But we'll ask all good luck for thee
Unfailing with good name,
As was natural from thy folk to thee,
To be a chief rich in fame;
Fine rider of steeds spirited,
Who'd not yield on slight strain,
O may we see thee well and hale
Back to this land again:

Thee safe back to thy high domain
Of forests, farms secure,
Of the bens, the glens, the corries,
The mountain and the moor;
To the white hall of loyalties,
Where shared thy sires lang syne
Bluff princely hospitality,
Culminating in wine.