XVI.

THE SEVEN SISTERS,

OR

THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE.

SEVEN Daughters had Lord Archibald,

All Children of one Mother:

I could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A Garland of seven Lilies wrought!
Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
Their Father, took of them no thought,

He loved the Wars so well.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The Solitude of Binnorie!

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,

And from the shores of Erin,

Across the wave, a Rover brave

To Biunorie is steering:

Right onward to the Scottish strand

The gallant ship is borne;

The Warriors leap upon the land,

And hark! the Leader of the Band

Hath blown his bugle horn.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The Solitude of Binnorie.

Beside a Grotto of their own,

With boughs above them closing,

The Seven are laid, and in the shade

They lie like Fawns reposing.

But now, upstarting with affright

At noise of Man and Steed,

Away they fly to left to right—
Of your fair household, Father Knight,
Methinks you take small heed!

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

Away the seven fair Campbells fly,

And, over Hill and Hollow,

With menace proud, and insult loud,

The youthful Rovers follow.

Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam :

Enough for him to find

The empty House when he comes home;

For us your yellow ringlets comb,

For us be fair and kind!"

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The Solitude of Binnorie.

Some close behind, some side by side,

Like clouds in stormy weather,

They run, and cry, "Nay let us die,

And let us die together."

A Lake was near; the shore was steep;

There never foot had been;

They ran, and with a desperate leap

Together plunged into the deep,

Nor ever more were seen.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The Solitude of Binnorie.

The Stream that flows out of the Lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little Islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The Fishers say, those Sisters fair
By Faeries are all buried there,
And there together sleep.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

In stray gifts to be claim'd by whoever shall find"

By their floating Mill,

Which lies dead and still,

Behold yon Prisoners three!

The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames; The Platform is small, but there's room for them all; And they're dancing merrily.

From the shore come the notes

To their Mill where it floats,

To their House and their Mill tethered fast;

To the small wooden Isle where their work to beguile
They from morning to even take whatever is given;-
And many a blithe day they have past.

In sight of the Spires

All alive with the fires

Of the Sun going down to his rest,

In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,

They dance, there are three, as jocund as free,

While they dance on the calm river's breast.