CXXVII

THE POETS OF WALES

DEAR Cymru, mid thy mountains soaring high
Dwells genius basking in thy quiet air,
And heavenly shades, and solitude more rare,
And all wrapt round with fullest harmony
Of streams which fall afar. Thus pleasantly
'Neath Nature their fit foster-mother's care,
Thy children learn from infant hours to bear
And work the will of God. Thy scenery
So varied-wild, so strangely sweet and strong,
Works on them and to music moulds their mind,
Till flows their fancy in poetic rills.

The voice of Nature breathes in every song;
And we may read therein thy features kind,
As in some tarn that nestles 'neath thy hills.

Thy fragrant breezes wander through the maze
Of all their songs as through a woodland reach;
Their odes drop sweetness like the ripening peach
In laden orchards on late summer days.
Their work is Nature's own-not theirs the praise
By culture won which midnight studies teach;
Sounds the loud cataract in their sonorous speech,
And strikes the keynote of their tuneful lays.
As to remotest ages in the past

We trace thy joyous story, more and more
Bards won high honour mid thy hills and vales.
So, Cymru, while this world of ours shall last,
And ocean echoing beat upon thy shore,
May poets never cease to sing for Wales!

Edmund Osborne Jones.

III

SCOTLAND

CXXVIII

FAREWELL TO LOCHABER

FAREWEEL to Lochaber, fareweel to my Jean,
Where heartsome wi' her I ha'e mony days been ;
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more.
These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear,
And no' for the dangers attending on weir;
Though borne on rough seas to a far distant shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

Though hurricanes rage, and rise ev'ry wind,
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind;
Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore.
To leave thee behind me, my heart is sair pain'd;
But by ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained;
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave;
And I maun deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse;
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it, I ne'er can have merit for thee;
And, wanting thy favour, I'd better not be.
I gae then, my lass, to win glory and fame;
And if I should chance to come glorious hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.
Allan Ramsay.

CXXIX

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST

A LAMENT FOR FLODDEN

I've heard the liltin' at our ewe-milkin',
Lasses a liltin' before dawn o' day;

But now there's a moanin' on ilka green loanin',
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.