Chapter 33 THE MANSE AT ROWAN-GLEN.

Weary I am, and all so fair,

Longing to clasp a hand;

For thou art very far, sweet love,

From my mountain land.

Dear are the clouds yon giant bens

Fold o'er their rugged breasts,

Grandly their straggling skirts lift up

Over the snow-flecked crests.

Dear are the hill-side glooms and gleams,

Their varied purple hue,

This