Each a high chief’s[111] proud seeming,
With his hind, and her gala
Of younglings, that follow
O’er mountain and beala,[112]
All lightsome are beaming. 
When that lightfoot so airy,
Her race is pursuing,
Oh, what vision saw e’er a
Feat of flight like her doing? 
She springs, and the spreading grass
Scarce feels her treading,
It were fleet foot that sped in
Twice the time that she flew in. 
The gallant array! 
How the marshes they spurn,
In the frisk of their play,
And the wheelings they turn,—­
As the cloud of the mind
They would distance behind,
And give years to the wind,
In the pride of their scorn! 
’Tis the marrow of health
In the forest to lie,
Where, nooking in stealth,
They enjoy her[113] supply,—­
Her fosterage breeding
A race never needing,
Save the milk of her feeding,
From a breast never dry. 
Her hill-grass they suckle,
Her mammets[114] they swill,
And in wantonness chuckle
O’er tempest and chill;
With their ankles so light,
And their girdles[115] of white,
And their bodies so bright
With the drink of the rill. 
Through the grassy glen sporting
In murmurless glee,
Nor snow-drift nor fortune
Shall urge them to flee,
Save to seek their repose
In the clefts of the knowes,
And the depths of the howes
Of their own Eas-an-ti.[116]

URLAR.

In the forest den, the deer
Makes, as best befits, his lair,
Where is plenty, and to spare,
Of her grassy feast. 
There she browses free
On herbage of the lea,
Or marsh grass, daintily,
Until her haunch is greased. 
Her drink is of the well,
Where the water-cresses swell,
Nor with the flowing shell
Is the toper better pleased. 
The bent makes nobler cheer,
Or the rashes of the mere,
Than all the creagh that e’er
Gave surfeit to a guest. 
Come, see her table spread;
The sorach[117] sweet display’d
The ealvi,[118] and the head
Of the daisy stem;
The dorach[119] crested, sleek,
And ringed with many a streak,
Presents her pastures meek,
Profusely by the stream. 
Such the luxuries
That plump their noble size,
And the herd entice
To revel in the howes. 
Nobler haunches never sat on
Pride of grease, than when they batten
On the forest links, and fatten
On the herbs of their carouse. 
Oh, ’tis pleasant, in the gloaming,
When the supper-time
Calls all their hosts from roaming,
To see their social prime;
And when the shadows gather,
They lair on native heather,
Nor shelter from the weather
Need, but the knolls behind. 
Dread or dark is none;
Their ’s the mountain throne,
Height and slope their own,
The gentle mountain kind;
Pleasant is the grace
Of their hue, and dappled dress,
And an ark in their distress,
In Bendorain dear they find.