_See Ben Clebrig, his giant front_ _Hidden and dark with a sudden frown;_ _What is the light of the valley to him,_ _Since Meenie's away to Glasgow town?_
_Empty the valley, empty the world,_ _The sun may arise and the sun go down;_ _But what to do with the lonely hours,_ _Since Meenie's away to Glasgow town?_
_Call her back, Clebrig! Mudal, call._ _Ere all of the young spring time be flown;_ _Birds, trees, and blossoms--you that she loved--_ _O summon her back from Glasgow town!_
'_Call her back, Clebrig! Mudal, call!_' he repeated to himself as he marched along the moorland road; for what would they do without some one to guard, and some one to watch for, and some one to listen for, in the first awakening of the dawn? Glasgow--the great and grimy city--that would be a strange sort of guardian, in the young Spring days that were coming, for this fair Sutherland flower. And yet might not some appeal be made even there--some summons of attention, as it were?
_O Glasgow town, how little you know_ _That Meenie has wandered in_ _To the very heart of your darkened streets,_ _Through all the bustle and din._
_A Sutherland blossom shining fair_ _Amid all your dismal haze,_ _Forfeiting the breath of the summer hills,_ _And the blue of the northern days._
_From Dixon's fire-wreaths to Rollox stalk,_ _Blow, south wind, and clear the sky,_ _Till she think of Ben Clebrig's sunny slopes,_ _Where the basking red-deer lie._
_Blow, south wind, and show her a glimpse of blue_ _Through the pall of dusky brown;_ _And see that you guard her and tend her well,_ _You, fortunate Glasgow town!_
But then--but then--that strange, impossible time--during which there would be no Meenie visible anywhere along the mountain roads; and Mudal Water would go by unheeded; and there would be no careless, clear-singing girl's voice along Loch Naver's shores--that strange time would surely come to an end, and he could look forward and see how the ending of it would be:
_The clouds lay heavy on Clebrig's crest,_ _For days and weeks together;_ _The shepherds along Strath-Terry's side_ _Cursed at the rainy weather;_ _They scarce could get a favouring day_ _For the burning of the heather._
_When sudden the clouds were rent in twain_ _And the hill laughed out to the sun;_ _And the hinds stole up, with wondering eyes,_ _To the far slopes yellow and dun;_ _And the birds were singing in every bush_ _As at spring anew begun,_