Classic Poem

THEME

 This was the wandering doe
 amid undergrowth;
 plantations of the banks
 were her dwelling place;
  foliage of the trees,
 tiny heather tips,
 were tit-bits of her choice,
 never garbage;
 her mien is airy, mild,
 joyous, glad, care-free;
 her head the rashest, daftest
 and silliest.
 Creature of sweet shyness,
 she ever found a haven
 in the glen of green thickets,
 the most succulent.
Frequently she browsed
On Craig Mhor,
for she enjoys being there,
on week-days and Sundays:
 common all around
 are bushes where she sleeps,
 which break the north wind,
 and let no puff to her,
 in the lee of Doire Chro,
 close against the Sroin,
 among the tender shoots,
 and in hollow nooks.
 The brew of Fuaran Mor—
 and 'tis plentiful enow—
 she deems tastier than beer
 as a beverage.
A draught of the noble stream
Is hers to drink,
which leaves her healthy, limber,
and ever young;
 swift-moving in a crisis,
 nimbly she wheels around,
 when involved in a chase,
 and she the quarry;
 soft-yellow tinged her hue,
 her form and aspect red,
 full many are the virtues
 combined in her;
 she is hardy to bear cold,
 and without a peer for speed;
 for faculty of hearing
 accord her the palm in Europe.