Ever again and again Filling the eyes of our child 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, 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 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 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 And night will come, and then, far through the darkling, Let torrents pour, then, let the great winds rally, 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, 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. |