Away with all, away with all,
Away with all but Morag,
A maid whose grace and mensefulness
Still carries all before it.
You shall not find her marrow,
For beauty without furrow,
Though you search the islands thorough
From Muile[132] to the Lewis;
So modest is each feature,
So void of pride her nature,
And every inch of stature
To perfect grace so true is.[133]
* * * * *
O that drift, like a pillow,
We madden to share it;
O that white of the lily,
'Tis passion to near it;
Every charm in a cluster,
The rose adds its lustre--
Can it be but such muster
Should banish the Spirit!