Stranger, thou goest—fare- thee well ;
The morn's grey light is on the plain.
The dew-drop gems the heather-bell,
No longer here must thou remain.
The moor maid's sono; one moment heed-
Then on thy journey haste afar ;
Too slow will be thy fleetest speed,
For the pale evenings first bright star
Must light thee to the lovely—then
Forget in bliss the forest glen.

Stranger, thou gofst—fare-thee well,
Forth to a foreign land afar—
Thy path is o'er the billow's swell,
Thy place is in the ranks of war ;
Then like a dimly vision'd dream.
The memory of our glen will be,
Or like a foam-spot on the stream,
Fast dancing downward to the sea—
The proud will honor thee—and then
Scorn in thy pride the forest glen.

But time must wing his airy flight,
The fairest not the truest prove,
Aerial visions sink in night
Which thou wilt build on woman's lore.
Warrior— the slave who bends his knee
To hail thee victor will betray,
His venom fang will fix on thee.
Ere shouts of conquest pass away;
Thou wilt recall—but sadly then—
Thoughts of our lovely—forest glen.