Y country! my country! I'll love thee forever!
Fair land of my birth; I forget thee will never: Though severed from thee by the deep-heaving main, Hope's whispers still tell me I'll see thee againTruth reigning triumphant, thy shores uninvaded, Thy beauty unshorn, and thy thistle unfaded.
When Summer makes Nature her glories disclose,
When Winter is robed in her mantle of snows,
And withers the flowerets that deck the gay scene,
Thy THISTLE stands forth in its garment of green.
Proud emblem of Freedom! disdaining to crouch,
The tyrant reels back at its deep-piercing touch;
He cannot, he dare not, its beauty deform,
For boldly it stands mid the tempest and storm.
Oh! long may it wave on the green mountain side,
Unfading as Truth in the strength of its pride:
Then spare it, O Time, from the wrecks of decay,
Till Nature expires and the hills melt away.
The Emigrant's Return.
LINES WRITTEN ON THE ATLANTIC OCEAN, 1839.
H! with a thrilling joy have I crossed the main,
The land of my birth to revisit again; The ocean's rude Alps I have journeyed o'er, The kneel once again on old Scotia's shore.
While sleepless I mused on my rocking pillow,
The ship dashing on o'er the crested billow,
My heart, beating high, like the heaving sea,
Still clung with devotion, my country, to thee !
I've stood in the hall Wisdom claims as her own,
Where erst valor and worth reared a kingless throne,
And patriots vowed that no tyrant on earth
Should ever enslave the dear land of their birth.
I have wandered o'er fields, 'neath a burning sun, Where the battles of Freedom were fought and won; And with rapturous awe have I speechless stood Where Niagara rolls its eternal flood.
I have trod o'er the plains where war's thunders pealed,
And his dread lightnings flashed o'er a purple field;
And with feelings by sad recollection fired,
Have I sat on the spot where brave Wolfe expired.
I have rode on the glorious waters blue,
Where lightly of yore skimmed the bark canoe,
Where the stars and the stripes now proudly wave
O'er the Indian's hut and the bleeding slave.
But give me the land where the heather and broom
Scent the mountain and glen with a sweet perfume;
Let me wander again by my native streams,
Which have murmured so oft in my midnight dreams.
Oh! to hear once again on the hawthorn bush
The ravishing notes of the black-bird and thrush,
And the lays of the lark warbling sweetly on high,
And the voice of the stream wimpling cheerily by.
Then give me, oh, give me the land of my birth-
The sweetest, the fairest, the dearest on earth.
O Scotland! brave Scotland! the home of the free,
May thy sons never feel less devoted to thee!
"They lived unknown
Till Persecution dragged them into fame,
And chased them up to heaven."
LL hail, Caledonia! and hail to thy towers,
Thy landscapes so lovely, and wild shaded bowers; To thy mountains, that once in sweet melody rung, And re-echoed the songs that our forefathers sung.
At Pentland and Bothwell, the blood of the slain
Gushed forth in red torrents and dewed the
green plain; At Aird's Moss the faithful assembled together, And sung their last song mid the wild blooming heather.
O Fancy! go back to those dark stirring times,
When Bigotry revelled in carnage and crimes,
And visit the heath where the remnant were scattered,
And their pale wasted forms lay bloody and shattered.
Though stern Persecution stands circled in gloom,
Pointing out with his sabre the path to the tomb,
They, true to their Master, in faith yet unshaken,
With sweet songs of Zion the wild waste awaken.
Hark! a trumpet sounds loudly; the foe is advancing;
The horsemen look fierce, and the war-steeds are prancing:
In the breeze blowing softly their banners are streaming,
And bright in the sunbeams their helmets are gleaming...
Frowns shadow their brows as they shout, as they yell,
Like demons let loose from the fetters of hell;
And with lances still reeking with blood they have spilt,
Heaven-daring and reckless, plunge deeper in guilt.
The war-tempest rages; the lightnings are flashing;
Through the smoke-shrouded ranks the coursers are dashing;
The brands of destruction are fearfully flying,
And deep are the groans of the wounded and dying.
Brave Cameron's band, to their Covenant true,
Whom gold could not tempt nor Oppression subdue,
Round their standard, all tattered, still spurning to yield,
With their leader unbending, expire on the field.
Humanity shudders at horrors so strange,
And deep are the breathings of burning Revenge :
Bold Courage still lingers, mild Mercy hath fled,
And Freedom weeps mournfully over the dead.
O Scotland! though dark be the page of thy story,
Names stainless cast o'er thee a halo of glory;
Ay, names that posterity proudly shall cherish,
And shrine in affection that never can perish.
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