She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.
Wordsworth.

A

The Flower

LONE, across a foreign plain,
The Exile slowly wanders,
And on his Isle beyond the main
With sadden'd spirit ponders:

This lovely Isle beyond the sea,
With all its household treasures;
Its cottage homes, its merry birds,
And all its rural pleasures:

Its leafy woods, its shady vales,
Its moors, and purple heather;
Its verdant fields bedeck'd with stars
His childhood loved to gather:

When lo! he starts, with glad surprise,
Home-joys come rushing o'er him,
For "modest, wee, and crimson-tipp'd",
He spies the flower before him!

With eager haste he stoops him down,
His eyes with moisture hazy,

And as he plucks the simple bloom,
He murmurs, "Lawk-a-daisy!"

(B 838)

Hood.

19

B

Exiled

LOWS 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 howes of the silent vanished

races,

And winds, austere and pure:

Be it granted 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.

B

R. L. Stevenson.

The North Countrie

ELLS upon the city are ringing in the night; High above the gardens are the houses full of light;

On the heathy Pentlands is the curlew flying

free;

And the broom is blowing bonnie in the north countrie.

We cannae break the bonds that God decreed to bind,
Still we'll be the children of the heather and the wind;
Far away from home, O, it's still for you and me
That the broom is blowing bonnie in the north countrie!
R. L. Stevenson.

"My heart's in the Highlands"

Y heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;

M

My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;

A-chasing the wild deer, and following the

roe

My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birthplace of valour, the country of worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Burns.

My Ain Countree

HE sun rises bright in France,

And fair sets he;

But he has tint the blithe blink he had
In my ain countree.

Oh! gladness comes to many,

But sorrow comes to me

As I look o'er the wide ocean

To my ain countree.

Oh! it's nae my ain ruin

That saddens aye my ee,
But the love I left in Galloway
Wi' bonnie bairnies three.
My hamely hearth burned bonnie,
An' smiled my fair Marie;
I've left my heart behind me
In my ain countree.

The bud comes back to summer
And the blossom to the bee,
But I'll win back-oh never

To my ain countree.
I'm leal to the high Heaven,
Which will be leal to me,
An' there I'll meet ye a' sune
Frae my ain countree.

A. Cunningham.

"Home no more home to me

A

OME no more home to me, whither must I wander?

Hunger my driver, I go where I must.

Cold blows the winter wind over hill and

heather;

Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust. Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree. The true word of welcome was spoken in the door— Dear days of old, with the faces in the firelight, Kind folks of old, you come again no more.

Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces, Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child. Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland; Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild,

Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland, Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold. Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,

The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.

Spring shall come, come again, calling up the moorfowl,

Spring shall bring the sun and rain, bring the bees and flowers;

Red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley,

Soft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours; Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhoodFair shine the day on the house with open door; Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney— But I go for ever and come again no more.

R. L. Stevenson.

Canadian Boat

Boat Song

ISTEN to me, as when ye heard our father
Sing long ago the song of other shores-
Listen to me, and then in chorus gather

All your deep voices as ye pull your oars: Fair these broad meads-these hoary woods are grand;

But we are exiles from our fathers' land.

From the lone shieling of the misty island

Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas

Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland,
And we in dreams behold the Hebrides:

Fair these broad meads-these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.