That door of hospitality.

I see the widow in her tears,
Dark as her woe--I see her boy--
From both, want reaves the dregs of joy;
The flash of youth through rags appears.

I see the poor's--the minstrel's lot--
As brethren they--no boon for song!
I see the unrequited wrong
Call for its helper, who is not.

You hear my plaint, and ask me, why?
You ask me _when_ this deep distress
Began to rage without redress?
"With Ian Macechan's dying sigh!"

[94] "Poems," p. 318.

THE SONG OF THE FORSAKEN DROVER.

During a long absence on a droving expedition, Mackay was deprived of
his mistress by another lover, whom, in fine, she married. The discovery
he made, on his return, led to this composition; which is a sequel to
another composed on his distant journey, in which he seems to
prognosticate something like what happened. Both are selected by Sir
Walter Scott as specimens of the bard, and may be found paraphrastically
rendered in a prose version, in the _Quarterly Review_, vol. xlv., p.
371, and in the notes to the last edition of "The Highland Drover," in
"Chronicles of the Canongate." With regard to the present specimen, it
may be remarked, that part of the original is either so obscure, or so
freely rendered by Sir Walter Scott's translator, that we have attempted
the present version, not without some little perplexity as to the sense
of one or two allusions. We claim, on the whole, the merit of almost
literal fidelity.

I.

I fly from the fold, since my passion's despair
No longer must harbour the charms that are there;
Anne's[95] slender eyebrows, her sleek tresses so long,
Her turreted bosom--and Isabel's[96] song;
What has been, and is not--woe 's my thought!
It must not be spoken, nor can be forgot.

II.

I wander'd the fold, and I rambled the grove,
And each spot it reported the kiss of my love;
But I saw her caressing another--and feel
'Tis distraction to hear them, and see them so leal.
What has been, and is not, &c.

III.

Since 'twas told that a rival beguil'd thee away,
The dreams of my love are the dreams of dismay;
Though unsummon'd of thee,[97] love has captured thy thrall,
And my hope of redemption for ever is small.
Day and night, thou