CXLII

LOYALTY

It's hame, an' it's hame, hame fain wad I be,

O it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the

tree,

The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie;
For it's hame, an' it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
O it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyaltie's begun for to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is witherin' an' a',
But I'll water't wi' the blude of usurpin' tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.

For it's hame, an' it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
O it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save;
The new grass is springin' on the tap o' their grave:
But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e,
'I'll shine on ye yet in yere ain countrie.'
For it's hame, an' it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
O it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
Allan Cunningham.

CXLIII

THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMIN'

THE Campbells are comin', O-ho, O-ho!
The Campbells are comin', O-ho!

The Campbells are comin' to bonnie Lochleven!
The Campbells are comin', O-ho, O-ho!

Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay;
Upon the Lomonds I lay;

I lookit doun to bonnie Lochleven,
An' saw three perches play.

N

Great Argyll he goes before;

He makes the cannons an' guns to roar,
Wi' sound of trumpet, pipe, and drum;
The Campbells are comin', O-ho, O-ho!

The Campbells they are a' in arms,
Their loyal faith and truth to show,
Wi' banners rattlin' in the wind,
The Campbells are comin', O-ho, O-ho!

Anonymous.

CXLIV

MY AIN COUNTRIE

OH! why left I my hame?
Why did I cross the deep?
Oh! why left I the land
Where my forefathers sleep?
I sigh for Scotia's shore,
And I gaze across the sea,
But I canna get a blink
O' my ain countrie.

The palm-tree waveth high,
And fair the myrtle springs;

And to the Indian maid

The bulbul sweetly sings.
But I dinna see the broom,

Wi' its tassels on the lea;
Nor hear the linties' sang
O' my ain countrie.

Oh! here no Sabbath bell
Awakes the Sabbath morn,
Nor
sang of reapers heard
Amang the yellow corn;
For the tyrant's voice is here,

And the wail o' slaverie;
But the sun o' freedom shines
In my ain countrie.

There's a hope for every woe,

And a balm for every pain;
But the first joys of our heart
Come never back again.
There's a track upon the deep,
And a path across the sea;
But for me there's nae return
To my ain countrie.

Robert Gilfillan.

CXLV

IN THE HIGHLANDS

IN the Highlands, in the country places,
Where the old plain men have rosy faces,
And the young fair maidens

Quiet eyes;

Where essential silence cheers and blesses,
And for ever in the hill-recesses

Her more lovely music

Broods and dies.

O to mount again where erst I haunted;
Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted;
And the low green meadows

Bright with sward;

And when even dies, the million-tinted,
And the night has come, and planets glinted,
Lo, the valley hollow

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,
Far, far from Scotland of the mist of storm,
In stagnant airs, the sun-smite on your faces,
The days so long and warm?

When all around you lie the strange fields sleeping,
The ghastly woods where no dear memories roam,
Do not your sad hearts over seas come leaping

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
Over the hills and by the thundering falls,
Or where the dirge of a brave past is chaunted
In dolorous dusks by immemorial walls.

Though hails may beat us and the great mists blind us,

And lightning rend the pine-tree on the hill,
Yet are we strong, yet shall the morning find us
Children of tempest all unshaken still.

We wander where the little grey towns cluster
Deep in the hills or selvedging the sea,

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,
And it will mind us of some fond eye's sparkling,
And we'll be happy then.

Let torrents pour, then, let the great winds rally,
Snow-silence fall or lightning blast the pine,
That light of home shines warmly in the valley,
And, exiled son of Scotland, it is thine.
Far have you wandered over seas of longing,
And now you drowse, and now you well

weep,

may

When all the recollections come a-thronging,
Of this rude country where your fathers sleep.
They sleep, but still the hearth is warmly glowing
While the wild Winter blusters round their

land;

That light of home, the wind so bitter blowing-
Look, look and listen, do you understand?
Love, strength, and tempest-oh, come back and

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.