The Hawk Whoops On High Poem by Alexander Campbell

The hawk whoops on high, and keen, keen from yon' cliff,
Lo! the eagle on watch eyes the stag cold and stiff;
The deer-hound, majestic, looks lofty around,
While he lists with delight to the harp's distant sound;
Is it swept by the gale, as it slow wafts along
The heart-soothing tones of an olden times' song?
Or is it some Druid who touches, unseen,
'The Harp of the North,' newly strung now I ween?

'Tis Albyn's own minstrel! and, proud of his name,
He proclaims him chief bard, and immortal his fame!--
He gives tongue to those wild lilts that ravish'd of old,
And soul to the tales that so oft have been told;
Hence Walter the Minstrel shall flourish for aye,
Will breathe in sweet airs, and live long as his 'Lay;'
To ages unnumber'd thus yielding delight,
Which will last till the gloaming of Time's endless night.