Puslapio vaizdai
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Ever again and again

Filling the eyes of our child
With the milk of paradise,-
Of which the soul is fain,
For which the heart is wild,

And tears are in the eyes:

Ah! that milk of paradise

Is happiness,

Is power to bless;

What balmy air to halcyon's wing

That power to those who make me glad is: To bind my life, in bonds to sing,

The way such freedom may be had is;

The way to gain the power to bless,

The one way to win happiness.

To Exiles.

ARE you not weary in your distant places,
Far, far from Scotland of the mist and 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 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 eyes 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 may weep, 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;
The light of Home, the winds 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!

John o' Lorn.

My plaid is on my shoulder, and my boat is on the shore,

And it's all by wi' auld days and you ;

Here's a health and here's a heart-break, for its hame, my dear, no more,

To the green glens, the fine glens we knew!

'Twas for the sake o' glory, but oh! wae upon the

wars

That brought my father's son to sic a day;

I'd rather be a craven wi' nor fame nor name nor

scars,

Than turn an exile's heel on Moidart Bay.

And you, in the day-time you'll be here, and in the mirk,

Wi' the kind heart, the open hand and free; And far awa' in foreign France, in town or camp or kirk,

I'll be wondering if you keep a thought for me.

But nevermore the heather nor the bracken at my knees,

I'm poor John o' Lorn, a broken man ;

For an auld Hielan' story I must sail the swinging

seas,

A chief without a castle or a clan.

My plaid is on my shoulder, and my boat is on the shore,

And it's all by wi' auld days and you;

Here's a health and here's a heart-break, for it's hame,

my dear, no more,

To the green glens, the fine glens we knew!

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