Duncan, the bard of rocky Staffin, Away in the north of rainy Skye: Has _he_ given over his rimes and daffin', In the mould of the bleak kirkyard to lie? His cot was built where the sea-gulls fly, And his misty isle to his soul was dear; Ere his song is finished, the bard must die; But where are the snows of yester-year? IV. And Dougal, who carried King Edward's mails Every day o'er the moor and heather, Scorning the chill of the winter gales, And the ten-mile walk in the sultry weather: Has _he_ too come to the end of his tether And gone to the ghosts with all his gear, His whistle, his satchel and strap of leather? But where are the snows of yester-year? V. Prince, they have gone from the regions that knew them, Gone at the summons that none can resist, Praise and every honour be to them, They did their best and they will be missed. We, too, shall soon be erased from the list Of workers below in this mortal sphere, And be no more to those that exist Than the vanished snows of yester-year. XX. THE ISLANDS OF THE NESS. A fairyland of trees and leafy bowers Where one may sit and dream the hours away, Or 'mid the devious walks and alleys stray, While perfume rises from a world of flowers, The girdling river, swollen with upland showers, Sends rippling round to every creek and bay The vagrant branches of his water-way; Then gathering up his current's parted powers, Swiftly-majestic in a broadening bed, He glistens on by many a chiming spire, And past the castle's pennoned turrets red, Till he attain the goal of his desire, And into the salt sea exulting throws His subsidy of rains and melted snows. XXI. AMERICAN TOURIST LOQUITUR (AT BERRIEDALE, CAITHNESS). If I had wealth like Vanderbilt Or some such millionaire, I'd live in Scotland, don a kilt, And _pay to prove_ my forbears spilt Their blood in forays there. I'd buy a picturesque estate Beside the ocean's flow, With knolls of heather at my gate, And pine-clad hills to dominate, The ferny dells below. I'd be a father to the folk That laboured on the soil, With old and young I'd crack my joke, Drink with them in their thirst, and smoke The pipe that lightens toil. For hens I'd have a special run, For ducks a special pool, My calves should frolic in the sun, My sheep should be surpassed by none Whose backs are clothed with wool. Although I'm not a Walton quite, Betweenwhiles I should try To lure the finny tribe to bite (At the right time, in the right light,) My simulated fly. When winter heaped his rattling hail High on the window sill, With pipe and wassail, rime and tale, I'd never miss the nightingale Or cuckoo on the hill.