We would strike the note of joy In the morning, The dawn with its orangery The hill-tops adorning. To bush and fell resorting, While the shades conceal'd our courting, Would not be lack of sporting Or gleeful _phrenesie_; Like the roebuck and his mate, In their woodland haunts elate The race we would debate Around the tendril tree. SIUBHAL. Thou bright star of maidens, A beam without haze, No murkiness saddens, No disk-spot bewrays. The swan-down to feeling, The snow of the gaillin,[134] Thy limbs all excelling, Unite to amaze. The queen, I would name thee, Of maidenly muster; Thy stem is so seemly, So rich is its cluster Of members complete, Adroit at each feat, And thy temper so sweet, Without banning or bluster. My grief has press'd on Since the vision of Morag, As the heavy millstone On the cross-tree that bore it. In vain the world over, Seek her match may the rover; A shaft, thy poor lover, First struck overpowering. When thy ringlets of gold, With the crooks of their fold, Thy neck-wards were roll'd All weavy and showering. Like stars that are ring'd, Like gems that are string'd Are those locks, while, as wing'd From the sun, blends a ray Of his yellowest beams; And the gold of his gleams Behold how he streams 'Mid those tresses to play. In thy limbs like the canna,[135] Thy cinnamon kiss, Thy bright kirtle, we ken a' New phoenix of bliss. In thy sweetness of tone, All the woman we own, Nor a sneer nor a frown On thy features appear; When the crowd is in motion For Sabbath devotion,[136] As an angel, arose on Their vision, my fair With her meekness of grace, And the flakes of her dress, As they stream, might express Such loveliness there. When endow'd at thy birth We marvel that earth From its mould, should yield worth Of a fashion so rare. URLAR. I never dream'd would sink On a peak that mounts world's brink, Of sunlight, such a blink, Morag! as thine. As the charmings of a spell, Working in their cell, So dissolves the heart where dwell Thy graces divine. SIUBHAL. Come, counsel me, my comrades, While dizzy fancy lingers, Did ever flute become, lads, The motion of such fingers? Did ever isle or Mor-hir,[137] Or see or hear, before her, Such gracefulness, adore her Yet, woes me, how concealing From her I 've wedded, dare I? Still, homeward bound, I tarry, And Jeanie's eye is weary, Her truant unrevealing. The glow of love I feel, Not all the linns of Sheil, Nor Cruachan's snow avail To cool to congealing.[138].... CRUNLUATH.