A Vanished Village

Is this the ground where generations lie
Mourn’d by the drooping birch and dewy fern,
And by the faithful, alder-shaded burn,
Which seems to breathe an everlasting sigh?
No sign of habitation meets the eye;
Only some ancient furrows I discern,
And verdant mounds, and from them sadly learn
That hereabout men used to live and die.
Once the blue vapour of the smouldering peat
From half a hundred homes would curl on high,
While round the doors rang children’s voices sweet;
Where now the timid deer goes wandering by,
Or a lost lamb sends forth a plaintive bleat,
And the lone glen looks up to the lone sky.