My delight it was to rise With the early morning skies, All aglow, And to brush the dewy height, Where the deer in airy state Wont to go; At least a hundred brace Of the lofty antlered race, When they left their sleeping-place Light and gay; When they stood in trim array, And with low deep-breasted cry, Flung their breath into the sky, From the brae: When the hind, the pretty fool, Would be rolling in the pool At her will, Or the stag in gallant pride, Would be strutting at the side Of his haughty-headed bride, On the hill. And sweeter to my ear Is the concert of the deer In their roaring; Than when Erin from her lyre Warmest strains of Celtic fire May be pouring; And no organ sends a roll So delightsome to my soul As the bravely-crested race When they quicken their proud pace And bellow in the face Of Ben Dorain. Nor will they stint the measure Of their frolic and their pleasure And their play, When with airy-footed amble At their freakish will they ramble O’er the brae. With their prancing and their dancing, And their ramping and their stamping, And their plashing and their washing In the pools, Like lovers newly wedded, Light-hearted, giddy-headed Little fools. No thirst have they beside The mill-brook’s flowing tide And the pure well’s lucid pride Honey-sweet; A spring of lively cheer, Sparkling, cool, and clear, And filtered through the sand At their feet; ’Tis a life-restoring flood To repair the wasted blood, The cheapest and the best in all the land; And vainly gold will try For the Queen’s own lips to buy Such a treat. From the rim it trickles down Of the mountain’s granite crown Clear and cool; Keen and eager though it go Through your veins with lively flow, Yet it knoweth not to reign In the chambers of the brain With misrule; Where dark water-cresses grow You will trace its quiet flow, With mossy border yellow, So mild, and soft, and mellow, In its pouring. With no slimy dregs to trouble The brightness of its bubble As it threads its silver way From the granite shoulders grey Of Ben-Dorain.