Ossian Collection > Gaelic bards

THE PIOUS LABOURER. 235
THE PIOUS LABOURER.*
Where rolls and roars the green Atlantic wave,
That heaves and welters from the mingling sky,
Where the fresh seaweed scents the lively gale,
And rocks, and sands, and moors, and hills combine
To form, with ocean and cloud- varied skies,
A scene to love, although it be not gay.
Nor richly cultured, nor with woodland green.
There stands a heathy range, close to the shore,
Which long-tongued billows fill with hollow sound,
And frequent showers, as if they loved it, fall,
When oft the winds pass over it in haste ;
Yet there the sunbeams bask in summer tide,
And autumn, with sweet odour floats therein.
While winter braces but ne'er chills the blood —
So much the sea air mellows his hard breath
Till spring, as beautiful as angel's smile,
Revives and visits its calm solitude.
Once in this place a labourer lived for long-
In a small cottage, thick with heather thatched,
From youth to age, a poor but honest man.
Few were the comforts by his home supplied —
Its roof was low, its floor was beaten clay,
Its window small, its furniture was rude —
A bed, a dresser and a few plain stools,
A chest, a table, and some bowls and pans —
Things all for use and strict necessity —
No ornament I trow, nor luxury had he.
These all the plenishing his house contained,
Here had he lived, and here he thought to die —
Round it he toiled throughout the circling year,
* See note IV.