Another bard of the name of Grant may be mentioned as belonging to this class. Many of the popular lyrics have been composed by authors who have not given us more than one or two songs. _Mo Nighean Dubh_ was written by the Rev. Mr Morrison of Petty; _Mairi Laghach_, by John Macdonald of Lochbroom; _Bonneid is it_, by A. Macalister of Islay; _Eilein an Fhraoich_, by M. MacLeod of Lewis. The mass of lyrics of this class is something enormous. When translated into English they are felt to be simple—sometimes painfully simple—metrical inartistic utterances of love-enkindled hearts. Attached to tender and often very pretty airs they have lived on the lips of thousands, and have cheered weary workers in the field and at the fireside. Of the nameless class of plaintive lilts is the following:—_Mo Run Geal Dileas_, well known throughout the Highlands. There are many versions of it, and the number of verses is scarcely ever the same. The chorus is rather unintelligible, and may have belonged to an earlier set of verses. The verses translated give a very fair conception of the merits and the spirit of the original. Like the Laureate’s _Mariana_, many of these Highland singers show much of the “a-weary, a-weary” condition of soul, and people of pretended lofty moral culture condemn the poor lyrists for manifesting such excess of feeling. My faithful fair one, my own, my loved one, My faithful fair one, return again; O, I return not! my love, I may not; For my own dear one is weak with pain. O, that I were in the form of sea-gull, That swims so lightly upon the sea; Soon would I leave for the isle of Islay, Where lives the maiden that grieved me. O, that I were with the best of maidens! In pleasant glades of the mountain side; With none to hear us but woodland songsters, I’d kiss my own one with loving pride. I was a season in foreign regions— In sunny climes that are far away; None with thy beauty my eye could find there; And with the fairest I would not stay. I will not strive with the tree that bends not, Though on its branch-tops sweet apples grow; Farewell be with thee, if thou hast left me, Ne’er came an ebb-tide without a flow.