Classic Poem

Blythe were the seasons when we were in Duror together,
In Appin of stories, and songs of brave old tribulations;
Shores of the sheldrake, hills of the deer, and the nut-woods,
Our hearts like a bird in the bosom!

Gay was it then with us, all the young jovial fellows—
Many a dance with the girls in Macgillivray's kitchen!
Many a creel-full of peats did we burn till the morning
Shone through the flowers in the window.

Green, green the land of Ardgour, oh, splendid with thunders!
How from the sheltering milk-house we watched its lightnings
Splinter on Garven and rip the veils of the valley,
Hearkening the roar of its torrents!

Winds might be scourging then, slashing with sleet of December;
Little they vexed us, keeping our trysts with the maidens,
Whistling our way through the Christmas glens in the gloaming,
For the touch of warm lips, and a whisper.

Ah, we were dauntless in those days, the morn on our bucklers,
Naught was amiss with the world then, we under enchantments.
Better a day at the trout in the burn or the moor-cock in Appin,
Than years of this trade as a soldier!

Had I my wish this day, I would be sailing Loch Lhinne,
Staving my way on a skiff to the house of Kingairloch,
Seeking the lad that I was in the years that were jaunty,
And She at the tiller beside me!

If they bury me here in the body, my cairn among strangers,
Only my bones will abide, for the best of me's yonder,
Forever at prime of the morn, age nor care on my shoulder.
In Duror, my Duror of Appin!