Billeder på siden

My island home! my childhood's home!

Beyond far fairer lands,
'Tis thou, despite thine aspect wild,

That all my love demands :
The visions of the loved and lost

Are blended with each scene;
And memory lives to linger o'er

Each spot where bliss hath been.

-C. G.

OUR native land, our native vale,

A long-a last adieu !
Farewell to bonny Teviotdale,

And Cheviot's mountains blue !
Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,

And streams renowned in song!
Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meads

Our hearts have loved so long!
Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes,

Where thyme and harebells grow!
Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes,

O’erhung with birk and sloe!
The battle-mound, the Border-tower,

That Scotia's annals tell;
The martyr's grave, the lover's bower-

To each-to all-farewell!
Home of our hearts ! our fathers' home!

La the brave and free!
The keel is flashing through the foam

That bears us far from thee.
We seek a wild and distant shore

Beyond the Atlantic main;
We leave thee to return no more,

Nor view thy cliffs again.

dishonour blight our fame,
And quench our household fires,
When we or ours forget thy name,

Green island of our sires !
Our native vale, our native vale,

A long-a last adieu !
Farewell to bonny Teviotdale,

And Scotland's mountains blue !


Though Scotland's hills be far awa',

And her glens, where the clear silver burnies row,
I see them, and hear her wild breezes blaw

O’er the moors where the blue-bells and heather grow.

Oh hame is sweet !-but thae hames o' thine

Are the kindliest far that the sun doth see;
And though far awa’ I have biggit mine,

As my mother's name they are dear to me!

I love the tale o' thy glories auld,

Which thy shepherds tell on the mountain side,
Of thy martyrs true, and thy warriors bauld,

Who for thee and for freedom lived and died !

Land of my youth! though my heart doth move,

And sea-like my blood rises high at thy name,
'Boon a' thing there's ae thing in thee I love-

The virtue and truth o’thy poor man's hame.
The poor man's hame! where I first did ken

That the soul alone makes the good and great-
That glitter and glare are false and vain,

And deceit upon glory's slave doth wait.
Thy poor man's hame! wi' its roof o'strae,

A hut as lowly as lowly can be-
Through it the blast sae cauldrife does gae;

the lowly, I'm proud o' thee!
Scotland! to thee thy sons afar

Send blessings on thy rocks, thy flood and faem-
On mountain and muir, on glen and scaur-

But deeper blessings still on thy poor man's hame! - ROBERT NICOLL.


'TWERE vain to seek on foreign shores the comforts of a “ home,"
That name is less familiar as farther on we roam ;
No other clime can boast the peace, the calm and tranquil pride,
A Briton feels when all is mirth around his fireside!

'Tis there the old forget their age, and gambol with the young, To mingle in the merry dance, or join the social song;

Oh! if from thought thou’dst turn away, some rankling care

thou’dst hide, Go, imitate the Briton's lot, and learn his fireside.

Yet not alone in gayer hours this social peace is known;
It lives and blooms when all the sweets of passing mirth have

flown: Yes; there the father mildly checks the faults he cannot chide, And chains the feelings of his child to that dear fireside.

Say, who can view the happy few, in innocence and mirth, Assembled round the very hearth which sparkled at their birth; Who, launched upon life's troubled sea, have struggled with her

tide, And not proclaim the blessings of a Briton's fireside?

Long may the hand which guards our isle avert the luckless day, When from her shores such happy scenes must fade and pass

away! Long still may Britons boast their peace, and feel an honest pride, That they alone of all the earth possess a fireside! -W. H.


SCOTLAND! the land of all I love,

The land of all that love me;
Land, whose green sod my youth has trod,

Whose sod shall lie above me.
Hail, country of the brave and good;

Hail, land of song and story;
Land of the uncorrupted heart,

Of ancient faith and glory!

Like mother's bosom o’er her child,

Thy sky is glowing o'er me;
Like mother's

ever-smiling face,
Thy land lies bright before me.
Land of my home, my father's land,

Land where my soul was nourished;
Land of anticipated joy,

And all by memory cherished !

Oh Scotland, through thy wide domain,

What hill, or vale, or river,
But in this fond enthusiast heart

Has found a place for ever?

With noisy,

Nay, hast thou but a glen or shaw,

To shelter farm or sheiling,
That is not garnered fondly up

Within its depths of feeling?
Adown thy hills run countless rills,

ceaseless motion;
Their waters join the rivers broad,

Those rivers join the ocean:
And many a sunny, flowery brae,

Where childhood plays and ponders,
Is freshened by the lightsome food,

As wimpling on it wanders.
Within thy long-descending vales,

And on the lonely mountain,
How many wild spontaneous flowers

Hang o'er each flood and fountain!
The glowing furze, the “ bonny broom,"

The thistle, and the heather;
The blue-bell, and the gowan fair,

Which childhood loves to gather.
Oh for that pipe of silver sound,

On which the shepherd lover,
In ancient days, breathed out his soul,

Beneath the mountain's cover!
Oh for that Great Lost Power of Song,

So soft and melancholy,
To make thy every hill and dale

Poetically holy !
And not alone each hill and dale,

Fair as they are by nature,
But every town and tower of thine,

And every lesser feature;
For where is there the spot of earth

Within my contemplation,
But from some noble deed or thing

Has taken consecration?

Scotland! the land of all I love,

The land of all that love me;
Land, whose green sod my youth has trod,

Whose sod shall lie above me.
Hail, country of the brave and good;

Hail, land of song and story;
Land of the uncorrupted heart,

Of ancient faith and glory!

-R. C.

Thy chalky cliffs are fading from my view,
Our bark is dancing gaily on the sea,
I sigh while yet I may, and say adjeu,
Albion, thou jewel of the earth, to thee
Whose fields first fed my childislı fantasy,
Whose mountains were my boyhood's wild delight,
Whose rocks, and woods, and torrents were to me

The food of my soul's youthful appetite-
Were music to my ear, a blessing to my sight!

I never dreamt of beauty, but, behold,
Straightway thy daughters flashed upon my eye;
I never mused on valour, but the old
Memorials of thy haughty chivalry
Filled my expanding soul with ecstacy;
And when I thought on wisdom, and the crown
The Muses give, with exultation high

I turned to those whom thou hast called thine own, Who fill the spacious earth with their and thy renown.

When my young heart, in life's light morning hour,
At Beauty's summons, beat a wild alarm,
Her voice came to me from an English bower,
And English were the smiles that wrought the charm;
And if, when wrapped asleep on Fancy's arm,
Visions of bliss my riper years have cheered,
Of home, and love's tireside, and greetings warm,

For one by absence and long toil endeared,
The fabric of my hopes on thee hath still been reared.

Peace to thy smiling hearths when I am gone;
And mayst thou still thine ancient dowry keep,
To be a mark to guide the nations on,
Like a tall watch-tower flashing o'er the deep;
Still mayst thou bid the sorrower cease to weep,
And dart the beams of Truth athwart the night
That wraps a slumbering world, till, from their sleep

Starting, remotest nations see the light,
And earth be blessed beneath the buckler of thy might!

Strong in thy strength I go; and wheresoe'er My steps may wander, may I ne'er forget All that I owe to thee; and oh may ne'er My frailties tempt me to abjure that debt! And what if far from thee my star must set, Hast thou not hearts that shall with sadness hear The tale, and some fair cheeks that shall be wet, And some bright eyes, in which the swelling tear Shall start for him who sleeps in Afric's deserts drear?

« ForrigeFortsæt »