Classic Poem

O who sits and sings the sad song of the Shealing,
Alone on the hill-side, alone in the night!
Dead still through the shadows the moon-light is stealing,
The dew's on the heather, the mist on the height.
She sitteth in silence, and singeth so slowly;
She milks the dark kine with her fingers so fair.
White woe of the lost, may her vigil be holy!
The song of the Shealing is sad on the air.

Dark strewn on the grass are the stones of the Shealing,
The wild leek and nettle grow black over all;
Here morning to gloaming the black hawk is wheeling,
And foumart and stoat suckle young in the wall.
It's lonely by daylight, but nightly, ah! nightly,
She comes from her cave, with her kine, and sits there.
Oh, hearken! she sings, and her face gleams so whitely:
The song of the Shealing is sad on the air.

O who would not hark to the song of the Shealing!
I stand in the shadow, I listen and sigh;
The day comes again, happy voices are pealing,
The blue smoke curls up to the sweet summer sky;
O red in the sunset the kine gather yonder,
The maidens are milking with rosy feet bare;
The sheep-dog is barking, — I hear it and ponder, —
The song of the Shealing is sad on the air.

O green was the pasture, and sweet was the Shealing,
And kind were the maidens barefooted and free,
And full of enchantment was Love's tender feeling
When the moon rose so silently up from the sea.
And on the green knolls walked the loved and the lover,
Wrapt warm in one plaid, with one thought and one care:
I see them! I hear them! my heart's running over, —
The song of the Shealing is sad on the air.

O spirit of whiteness, O Ghost of the Shealing!
Sing on, and sing low in the shade of the hill;
The picture has faded your voice was revealing,
The white owl looks out through the threshold so chill.
There's a star on Ben Rannoch shines softly above you,
It sparkles all night on the dew in your hair:
White Soul of the Silence, we hear you and love you, —
The song of the Shealing is sad on the air.