CXLII LOYALTY It's hame, an' it's hame, hame fain wad I be, O it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! tree, The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; The green leaf o' loyaltie's begun for to fa', For it's hame, an' it's hame, hame fain wad I be, The great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save; CXLIII THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMIN' THE Campbells are comin', O-ho, O-ho! The Campbells are comin' to bonnie Lochleven! Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay; I lookit doun to bonnie Lochleven, N Great Argyll he goes before; He makes the cannons an' guns to roar, The Campbells they are a' in arms, Anonymous. CXLIV MY AIN COUNTRIE OH! why left I my hame? The palm-tree waveth high, And to the Indian maid The bulbul sweetly sings. Wi' its tassels on the lea; Oh! here no Sabbath bell And the wail o' slaverie; There's a hope for every woe, And a balm for every pain; Robert Gilfillan. CXLV IN THE HIGHLANDS IN the Highlands, in the country places, Quiet eyes; Where essential silence cheers and blesses, Her more lovely music Broods and dies. O to mount again where erst I haunted; Bright with sward; And when even dies, the million-tinted, Lamp-bestarred! O to dream, O to awake and wander There, and with delight to take and render, Through the trance of silence, Quiet breath; Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses, Only the mightier movement sounds and passes; Only the winds and rivers, Life and death. Robert Louis Stevenson. CXLVI EXILED BLOWS the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying, Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying, My heart remembers how! Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor, Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races, And winds, austere and pure: Be it granted to me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home! and to hear again the call; Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying, And hear no more at all! Robert Louis Stevenson. CXLVII TO EXILES ARE you not weary in your distant places, When all around you lie the strange fields sleeping, To the Highlands and the Lowlands of your home? Wild cries the Winter, loud through all our valleys The midnights roar, the grey noons echo back; About the scalloped coasts the eager galleys Beat for kind harbours from the horizons black; We tread the miry roads, the rain-drenched heather, We are the men, we battle, we endure! God's pity for you, exiles, in your weather Of swooning winds, calm seas, and skies demure! Wild cries the Winter, and we walk song-haunted Though hails may beat us and the great mists blind us, And lightning rend the pine-tree on the hill, We wander where the little grey towns cluster By farm-lands lone, by woods where wild-fowl muster To shelter from the day's inclemency; And night will come, and then far through the darkling A light will shine out in the sounding glen, Let torrents pour, then, let the great winds rally, weep, may When all the recollections come a-thronging, land; That light of home, the wind so bitter blowing- share them! Here is the cottage, here the open door; We have the hearts, although we do not bare them,― They're yours, and you are ours for evermore. Neil Munro. |