Poem by Anonymous

Glen-Orra

THE GALE is high, the bark is light,
  Swiftly it glides the dark sea over;
Why bear, ye waves, so base a freight,
  Why waft, ye winds, a vagrant lover?
Wake, artless maid, thy dream is o’er,
  No brightening hope can gild to-morrow,
Thy lover hails a distant shore,
  Nor thinks of thee far in Glen-Orra.

The moon is up, the maiden ’s gone,
  Where flower and tree the night dews cover,
To weep by mountain streamlet lone,
  O’er perjured vows of faithless lover.
Turn, faithless wretch, seek Orra’s wild,
  To rapture raise the maiden’s sorrow,
Ah! see where love so lately smiled,
  Cold, cold, she sinks in dark Glen-Orra.

The moon hangs pale o’er Orra’s steep,
  And lists a hapless maiden sighing,
The sullen night-winds, caverned, sleep,
  As loath to rave o’er maiden dying.
The hue of death has blenched the lip,
  The rosy cheek is pale with sorrow,
Ere morn, death’s chilly hand shall nip
  The loveliest flower in green Glen-Orra.

1. Gathering of Atholl
2. The Banks o’ Glaizart
3. Fare Ye Weel, My Auld Wife
4. The Aisle of Tombs
5. Sir Richard Whittington’s Advancement

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