The sunset sheds a horizontal smile O’er Highland frith and Hebridean isle, While, gay with gambols of its finny shoals, The glancing wave rejoices as it rolls With streamered busses, that distinctly shine All downward, pictured in the glassy brine; Whose crews, with faces brightening in the sun, Keep measure with their oars, and all in one Strike up th’ old Gaelic song.—Sweep, rowers, sweep! The fisher’s glorious spoils are in the deep. Day sinks—but twilight owes the traveller soon, To reach his bourne, a round unclouded moon, Bespeaking long undarkened hours of time; False hope—the Scots are stedfast—not their clime. A war-worn soldier from the western land, Seeks Cona’s vale by Ballihoula’s strand; The vale by eagle-haunted cliffs o’erhung, Where Fingal fought and Ossian’s harp was strung.— Our veteran’s forehead, bronzed on sultry plains, Had stood the brunt of thirty fought campaigns; He well could vouch the sad romance of wars, And count the dates of battles by his scars; For he had served where o’er and o’er again Britannia’s oriflamme had lit the plain Of glory—and victorious stamped her name On Oudenarde’s and Blenheim’s fields of fame. Nine times in battlefield his blood had streamed, Yet vivid still his veteran blue eye gleamed; Full well he bore his knapsack—unoppressed— And marched with soldier-like erected crest: Nor sign of ev’n loquacious age he wore, Save when he told his life’s adventures o’er; Some tired of these; for terms to him were dear Too tactical by far for vulgar ear; As when he talked of rampart and ravine, And trenches fenced with gabion and fascine— But when his theme possessed him all and whole, He scorned proud puzzling words and warmed the soul; Hushed groups hung on his lips with fond surprise, That sketched old scenes—like pictures to their eyes:— The wide war-plain, with banners glowing bright, And bayonets to the farthest stretch of sight; The pause, more dreadful than the peal to come From volleys blazing at the beat of drum— Till all the field of thundering lines became Two level and confronted sheets of flame. Then to the charge, when Marlbro’s hot pursuit Trode France’s gilded lilies underfoot; He came and kindled—and with martial lung Would chant the very march their trumpets sung.— The old soldier hoped, ere evening’s light should fail, To reach a home, south-east of Cona’s vale; But looking at Bennevis, capped with snow, He saw its mists come curling down below, And spread white darkness o’er the sunset glow;— Fast rolling like tempestuous Ocean’s spray, Or clouds from troops in battle’s fiery day— So dense, his quarry ’scaped the falcon’s sight, The owl alone exulted, hating light.