Classic Poem

I grieve at the condition
of the green corrie of pasture
where I earned my living for a time,
over yonder on the Brae;
there's many a man besides me,
whose spirit would be gladdened,
were it as it was formerly,
when I left it to come here.
'Twas gun-shooting and volleys,
amusement and diversion,
that were practised by the heroes
who used to be in the glen.
Those men have gone away thence,
and MacEwan, who lives there now,
is like a stone in lieu of cheese,
in place of those who have been there.

The corrie has been blighted:
though it were cropped to the ground,
there's none who feels concern for it,
at present round the place;
the deer, once there, have left it,
not one stayed in its precincts,
nor is their habitation
as erstwhile in the glen.
The baron is disheartened,
and he has failed to charm them,
lacking knowledge of their nature,
though he did come there:
he were better, as his wont was,
bent over the tub of corn husks,
and of these to have his hands full,
squeezing them hard.

A change come on the world it is,
that the fine, beloved corrie,
should now be desolated
and the bailiff come thereto —
he whose routine was always
to round up fatted poultry:
oft have thy made a squawking,
under torture by your hand,
while disposed in brindled bundles
round your neck and in your oxters;
then fluttering and squirming
would be about your teeth.
You were spry in supervising
round the kitchen of the earl's house,
though 'twas never your ambition
to put pelts upon the peg.

Though you are in the Brae now,
none will associate with you,
and everyone disdains you
since ever you came there;
you will be forced to leave them,
worse off than when you came:
you will not please their nature
with grumbling and abuse.
Though you might see the proud herd,
when you went round about them,
you will do nought but drive them
up among the peaks,
with the gun that was not effective,
having rust upon its touch-hole;
the dingy, crooked bludgeon,
it will not hit the stacks.

How the corrie has gone to ruin,
since now it has no deer,
nor any man who loves them
nor any man who loves them
and is efficient on their trail.
Because they have no keeper,
they will not stay compactly;
in fact, they have retreated
beyond the plain of Loops.
There's not even a roebuck
in wood or by a spring,
but has been forced to move off,
in flight, throughout the land.
There's now no sport around it,
that would provide enjoyment,
or gratify a gentleman,
though he unleashed his hound.

The wood that was in that forest,
the long and straight-grown tree trunks,
have fallen and are dried up,
all down within their bark;
the thickets that were fruitful,
the dense and numerous bushes,
have withered as though plucked up
right out of the soil;
the shoots that were the fairest,
the wands and the young saplings,
and the place wherein the mavis
would sing a mellow strain —
all of them have altered:
neither wood nor heath endured there,
the top is missing from each tree,
for the bailiff takes it off them.

The Water of Strath-na-Dige
is as rinsings, dark and turbid,
with a green, pale scum upon it,
disgusting and foul;
grass-choked tarns and back-water,
where the water-lily springs up —
there is nought else of any kind
now growing in the place;
water-pits of bog-land,
in its deep unruffled pot-holes,
are thick as corn-husk sowans,
all sediment and slime;
stale, dirty, ochreous water,
no purer below than on surface,
indeed, 'tis like a red sea,
in its rusty flow through creeks.

The place in which the springs were
has developed into hard humps,
without primrose, without violet,
or noble herb on rock;
the hillside where the hinds were,
where they lay down and rose up —
is bare as a paved fair-ground,
and the grass has become scant.
Alexander, with his bellowing,
has broken up that herd;
methinks it is a great crime
to have lost the stock;
'tis no less cause of annoyance,
that he who used to keep cosy,
is descending and ascending
the forest of lithe stags.

But if it be one of Patrick's line
that now goes to the place,
and drives from his position
the changeling that is there,
the corrie will be as it was:
calves and rutting young hinds will be there,
and the stags will go a-mating
in the mountain wilderness;
there will be bucks in the warm brakes,
the trout in the river beside them
and deer on Strath-na-Lairge,
rearing the fawns;
all will revert to use and wont,
with mirth and jubilation,
when the baron gets a summons
to quit, and has no choice.