This is the "Faust" of Gaelic poetry, incommunicable except to the native reader, and, like that celebrated composition, an untranslatable tissue of tenderness, sublimity, and mocking ribaldry. The heroine is understood to have been a young person of virtue and beauty, in the humbler walks of life, who was quite unappropriated, except by the imagination of the poet, and whose fame has passed into the Phillis or Amaryllis _ideal_ of Highland accomplishment and grace. Macdonald was married to a scold, and though his actual relations with Morag were of the Platonic kind, he was persuaded to a retractation, entitled the "Disparagement of Morag," which is sometimes recited as a companion piece to the present. The consideration of brevity must plead our apology with the Celtic readers for omitting many stanzas of the best modern composition in their language. URLAR. O that I were the shaw in,[130] When Morag was there, Lots to be drawing For the prize of the fair! Mingling in your glee, Merry maidens! We Rolicking would be The flow'rets along; Time would pass away In the oblivion of our play, As we cropp'd the primrose gay, The rock-clefts among; Then in mock we 'd fight, Then we 'd take to flight, Then we 'd lose us quite, Where the cliffs overhung. Like the dew-drop blue In the mist of morn So thine eye, and thy hue Put the blossom to scorn. All beauties they shower On thy person their dower; Above is the flower, Beneath is the stem; 'Tis a sun 'mid the gleamers, 'Tis a star 'mid the streamers, 'Mid the flower-buds it shimmers The foremost of them! Darkens eye-sight at thy ray! As we wonder, still we say Can it be a thing of clay We see in that gem? Since thy first feature Sparkled before me, Fair! not a creature Was like thy glory.[131].... [130] We must suppose some sylvan social occupation, as oak-peeling or the like, in which Morag and her associates had been employed. [131] Here follows a catalogue of rival beauties, with satirical descriptions. Cowley has such a list, which may possibly have been in the poet's eye. SIUBHAL. Away with all, away with all, Away with all but Morag, A maid whose grace and mensefulness Still carries all before it. You shall not find her marrow, For beauty without furrow, Though you search the islands thorough From Muile[132] to the Lewis; So modest is each feature, So void of pride her nature, And every inch of stature To perfect grace so true is.[133] * * * * * O that drift, like a pillow, We madden to share it; O that white of the lily, 'Tis passion to near it; Every charm in a cluster, The rose adds its lustre-- Can it be but such muster Should banish the Spirit! URLAR.