My very brain is humming, sirs, As a swarm of bees were bumming, sirs, And I fear distraction 's coming, sirs, My passion such a flame is. My very eyes are blinding, sirs, Scarce giant mountains finding, sirs, Nor height nor distance minding, sirs, The crag, as Corrie, tame is.... [132] Mull. [133] Morag's beauties are so exquisite, that all Europe, nay, the Pope would be inflamed to behold them. The passage is omitted, though worthy of the satiric vein of Mephistopheles. [134] The gannet, or the _stranger-bird_, from his foreign derivation and periodic visits to the Islands. [135] A snowy grass, well known in the moors. [136] _Lit._, On the day of devotion. [137] The mainland, or _terra firma_, is called Morir by the islanders. NEWS OF PRINCE CHARLES. Though this, in some respects, may not rank high among Macdonald's compositions, it is one of the most natural and earnest. His appeal to the hesitating chiefs of Sleat and Dunvegan, is a curious specimen of indignation, suppressed by prudence, and of contempt disguised under the mask of civility. Glad tidings for the Highlands! To arms a ringing call-- Hammers storming, targets forming, Orb-like as a ball.[139] Withers dismay the pale array, That guards the Hanoverian; Assurance sure the sea 's come o'er, The help is nigh we weary on. From friendly east a breeze shall haste The fruit-freight of our prayer-- With thousands wight in baldrick white,[140] A prince to do and dare; Stuart his name, his sire's the same, For his riffled crown appealing, Strong his right in, soon shall Britain Be humbled to the kneeling. Strength never quell'd, and sword and shield, And firearms play defiance; Forwards they fly, and still their cry, Is,[141] "Give us flesh!" like lions. Make ready for your travel, Be sharp-set, and be willing, There will be a dreadful revel, And liquor red be spilling. O, that each chief[142] whose warriors rife, Are burning for the slaughter, Would let their volley, like fire to holly, Blaze on the usurping traitor. Full many a soldier arming, Is laggard in his spirit, E'er his blood the flag is warming Of the King that should inherit. He may be loon or coward, That spur scarce touch would nearly-- The colours shew, he 's in a glow, Like the stubble of the barley. Onward, gallants! onward speed ye, Flower and bulwark of the Gael; Like your flag-silks be ye ruddy, Rosy-red, and do not quail. Fearless, artless, hawk-eyed, courteous, As your princely strain beseems, In your hands, alert for conflict, While the Spanish weapon gleams.-- Sweet the flapping of the bratach,[143] Humming music to the gale; Stately steps the youthful gaisgeach,[144] Proud the banner staff to bear.