Their gloss thy brows over--
Forget thee! thy lover,
Ah, first shall they bury.

Thy aspect of kindness,
Thy graces they bind us,
And, like Feili,[45] remind us
Of a heaven undreary.

Than the treasures of Spain
I would toil more to gain
Thy love--but my pain,
Ah, 'tis cruel, my Mary!

When the shell is o'erflowing,
And its dew-drops are glowing,
No, never, thy snow on
A slander shall tarry.

When viols are playing,
And dancers are Maying,
My eyes may be straying,
But my soul is with Mary.

That white hand of thine
Might I take into mine,
Could I ever repine,
Or from tenderness vary?

No, never! no, never!
My troth on 't for ever,
Lip to lip, I 'd deliver
My being to Mary.

FOOTNOTES:

[44] Invernahyle removed with his family to Edinburgh, and became very
intimate with the father of Sir Walter Scott. He seems to have made a
great impression on the future poet.

[45] Festivals, saint-days.

ANGUS FLETCHER.

Angus Fletcher was born at Coirinti, a wild and romantic spot on the
west bank of Loch Eck, in June 1776. His education was chiefly conducted
at the parish school of Kilmodan, Glendaruel. From Glendaruel he went to
Bute, in 1791, where he was variously employed till May 1804, when he
was elected schoolmaster of Dunoon, his native parish. His death took
place at Dunoon in 1852. The first of the two following songs was
contributed anonymously to the _Weekly Journal_ newspaper, whence it was
transferred by Turner into his Gaelic collection. It soon became popular
in the Highlands, and the authorship came to be assigned to different
individuals. Fletcher afterwards announced himself as the author, and
completely established his claim. He was the author of various metrical
compositions both in Gaelic and English.

THE CLACHAN OF GLENDARUEL.

Thy wily eyes, my darling,
Thy graces bright, my jewel,
Have grieved me since our parting
At the kirk of Glendaruel.

'Twas to the Kirkton wending
Bright eyes encounter'd duty,
And mavis' notes were blending
With the rosy cheeks of beauty.

Oh, jimpsome is her shapely waist,
Her arms, her instep queenly;
And her sweet parting lips are graced
With rows of ivory inly.

When busy tongues are railing,
Lown is her word unsaucy,
And