There's gloom upon yon mountain brow,
There's darkness in yon glen,
No more the white fall sparkles now
In yonder hazy den.
Hushed are the tuneful groves, the sun
Beams not on babbling rills.
Strong bands are taking one by one
The freedom of the hills!
— ROBERT BIRD, The Freedom of the Hills, in Songs of Freedom, p. 294.
among the other verses is this one:
What climbing Scot could tamely see
Upon a mountainous border,
"This hill path shall alone be free
To sporting lords. By order."—
As well lay tolls upon men's eyes,
Arrest the clouds' swift motion,
Trap the free air, divide the skies,
And parcel out the ocean.
THE FREEDOM OF THE HILLS.
Robert Bird
in Songs of Freedom
By Henry Stephens Salt
There's gloom upon yon mountain brow,
There's darkness in yon glen,
No more the white fall sparkles now
In yonder hazy den.
Hushed are the tuneful groves, the sun
Beams not on babbling rills,
Strong hands are taking one by one
The freedom of the hills!
Oh! what is Scotland's greatest pride?
Is it her streams and fountains,
Lochs, isles, and dark woods spreading wide?
Nay! 'tis her glorious mountains!
Where granite grey, and shingly sheen
Fling back the sun together,
'Mong yellow whins and bracken green,
And fragrant purple heather.
Shall men give up their free resort
That squires, with gun and cartridge,
May have their brief and bloody sport
'Mong pheasant, grouse, and partridge?
That deer, who seek the lonely place,
To which their trust has drawn them,
May never see a human face
Till murder bursts upon them?
What climbing Scot could tamely see
Upon a mountainous border,
"This hill path shall alone be free
To sporting lords. By order."—
As well lay tolls upon men's eyes,
Arrest the clouds' swift motion,
Trap the free air, divide the skies,
And parcel out the ocean.
Ye gentle folks who walk in silk,
And dream of feudal vassals,
You're welcome to your hands of milk,
Your gardens, parks, and castles;
But do not try to filch away
The free paths of the people,
Or ye may hear some sunny day
Th' alarum bell in the steeple.
'Tis ever from the darkest cloud,
Brooding in mourning deep,
That crackling thunder volleys loud,
And jagged lightnings leap;
And from the gloom o'er wood and lake
A warning murmur thrills,—
Woe to the hand that tries to take
The freedom of the hills?
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