Your little Mary now is gone,
Gone like a flower in May;
For death came like a killing frost,
And nipt her life away.
How short the time since last she sat,
A prattler on the knee;
A happy little laughing thing,
So full of childish glee.
Sore, sore, you'll miss her pattering feet, Upon the dwelling floor;
No more she'll run with joyful step,
To meet you at the door.
No more her little loving arms
Around you she will clasp;
For now they're cold and motionless
In death's unyielding grasp.
But hold! my friends, we ever look
Upon the darkest side;
Just think of little Mary now,
A spirit glorified.
Dry up your tears-yea, and rejoice
That all her pain is o'er;
And that she has arrived in peace
On yonder happy shore.
Your little Mary's happy now,
For she is safe at home;
Just think she's there to welcome you,
When you, her friends, shall come.
Then all the trials you endure,
How light they all shall seem;
And also all the joys of earth,
Just like a fleeting dream.
O! could you look within the veil,
And your dear Mary see,.
Dh'fhalbh thu, 'Mhàiri, 'uain gu bràth,
A's shearg thu mar am blàth;
Thàinig am bàs mar reodhadh fuar,
A's sheac thu 'sìos gun dàil.
Cha-n 'eil e leam ach mar an dé
O'n bha i air do ghlùn,
Gu beothal, eutrom, suilbhir, ait,
Ged tha i 'n diugh fo'n ùir.
Is mòr an ionndrainn nis gach tràth,
A ceum cha tig dhuit dlùth;
A's tuille 'm feasd cha ruith i 'mach
Ad còmhlachadh le mùirn.
'S cha ghlac i thu 'na làmhan beag
Gu tlusor, mar bu ghnàth,
Oir tha iad 'nis gun luths, gun neart,
Fo cheangal teann a' bhàis!
Ach tosd! mo chàirdean, 's tionndaibh 'nis
Bho choslas dorch' na h-uaigh',
A's faicibh Màiri shuas air nèamh 'An cuideachd Dhé 's an Uain.
Bho'r sùilibh siabaibh fòs gach deur
Le h-aiteas air a sgàth;
Oir fhuair i saors' o 'sàrachadh,
A's fuasgladh o gach càs.
Do Mhairi bheag tha sona 'nis-
A dachaidh ràinig shuas;
'S le aiteas còmhlaichidh thu 'n sin,
Ma leanas tusa 'n t-Uan.
Gach sàrachadh a fhuair thu bhos
'An sin bidh faoin leat féin;
A's fòs gach sòlas talmhaidh bidh
Mar bhruadar dhuit gu léir.
Na-m faiceadh sibh a nis a h-àgh,
'S cho glòrmhor 's a tha i,
Arrayed in the white spotless robe,
And filled with ecstasy.
A golden crown upon her head,
A harp within her hand,
Among yon happy children dear,
Who round the throne do stand.
And there, in holy loveliness,
She will for ever grow;
No sin can mar her happiness,
As it does ours below.
She eats the fruit of endless life,
Which Jesus' hands bestow;
He leads her to the rivers sweet,
Where living waters flow.
Then let us not repine, my friends,
When ties are broken here;
If they are only called from hence
To fill a higher sphere.
Each tie that's loosed, is meant to bind
Us nearer to our God;
To loose our hold of earthly things,
And walk the narrow road.
May this and every trial sent
To you be sanctified;
And from the furnace may you come
Like gold that's purified.
A CRY FROM CRAIGELLACHIE.
Land of Bens, and Glens, and Corries,
Headlong rivers, ocean floods!
Have we lived to see this outrage
On your haughty solitudes?
Yea! there burst invaders stronger,
On the mountain barriered land,
'Si còmhdaichte le trusgan geal,
'An aoibhneas 'tha gun chrioch.
Le crùn neo-thruaillidh air a ceann,
A's clàrsach òir air ghleus;
'An caidreamh gràidh na cloinne sin
'Tha 'cuartach' cathair Dhé.
A's ann am maise 's ann an àgh
'Nis fàsaidh i gu h-àrd;
Oir peacadh, freumh gach truaighe's cràidh, Cha téid a suas gu bràth.
Do chraobh na beatha blaisidh i
Bho làmhan Iosa féin;
A's òlaidh i do'n uisge bheò
Bheir sòlas feadh gach ré.
Mo chàirdean, feuch gu-n strìochd sibh 'nis 'N uair bhrisear bannan gràidh;
Oir ged a dhealaich sinn a bhos
Gu-n còmhlaich sinn gu h-àrd.
Gach snaom a dh'fhuasglar leis a bhos
'S e rùn gu-n tàth gu h àrd—
'S'n uair bheir e sòlais thalmhaidh 'uain
Gu-n gluaiseamaid 'na ghràdh,
Gach sàrachadh a's deuchainn gheur
Gu-n naomhaicheadh dhuibh fòs;
'So àmhuinn theith na h-àmhghair chruaidh Bheir sibh a mach mar òr.
EIGH BHO CHREIG-EILEACHAIDH.
Thir nam Beann, nan Gleann, 's nan Coire,
Nan sruth cas, 's nan tuiltean mòr',
Leinn cha d' shaoil gu'm faict' an càramhs'
Air do fhridhean àrd' r'ar beò.
Feuch a nise feachd a's tréine
Na feachd Chromueill nan geur-lann
Than the Ironsides of Cromwell,
Or the bloody Cumberland!
Spanning Tay and curbing Tummel,
Hewing with rude mattocks down
Killiecrankie's birchen chasm,
What reck they of old renown!
Cherished names! how disenchanted!
Hark the Railway Porter roar,
Ho! Blair-athole! Dalnaspidal!
Ho! Dalwhinnie! Aviemore!
Garry, cribbed with mound and rampart,
Up his chafing bed we sweep,
Scare from his lone lochan cradle
The charmed immemorial sleep.
Grisly, storm resounding Badenoch,
With grey boulders scattered o'er,
And cairns of forgotten battles,
Is a wilderness no more.
Ha! we start the ancient silence,
Thundering down the long incline
On Strathspey and Rothiemurchus,
Forests of primaeval pine.
Boar of Badenoch! Sow of Athole!
Hill by hill behind we cast,
Rock, and craig, and moorland reeling,-
Scarce Craigellachie stands fast.*
Dark Glen More and clov'n Glen Feshie,
Loud along these desolate tracts,
Hear the shriek of whistle louder
Than their headlong cataracts.
Strange to them the train-but stranger
The mixed throng it huddles forth-
Strand and Piccadilly emptied
On the much enduring North.
* "Stand fast Craigellachie," is the war-cry of the Clan Grant.
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