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Let, the free-born sons of the mountains go
The space is too narrow there.
The land of the fathers is for the deer.
For their sons there is none to spare !
Tell them that straths where hundreds have thrived
Have grown sterile all in a day;
And from fields that were golden with waving corn
The soil has all melted away ;
What matters it then tho' their arms be strong,
Tho' their hearts be loyal and true ?
It will bring more gold to the lord of the soil,
That his tenants be rich and few ;
Some upstart American rents his land,
And fills up his greedy purse.
And he cares not tho' every coin is stamped
With a people's lasting curse
His forests are bringing him longed-for wealth.
Each day increases his gain,
And who would weigh 'gainst the glittering gold
A few starving cottagers' pain ?
So each fertile valley and picturesque glen
Are made desolate one by one !
But Britain ! these deeds wilt thou sorely rue
Ere a few more sands have run.
Open your arms with motherly love
To each foreign vagrant that comes.
To render more dense the close foetid air
In congested London slums ;
Give them a shelter and home and food.
Keep a welcome awaiting them all,
Tho' the city is swarming with hard working men
Who are starving within it- walls.
When you want brave soldiers to fight your foes
Perchance you may find them there?
('Twill be useless to seek them in Highland gldns
Cleared out thro' your generous care !)
And clothe them in tartan 'twere better so.
It has broughi you a world-wide fame ;
But see if the soldiers who wear it then
Will bring glory to Britain's name.
CRY FROM LOCHABER PLEADING FOR
GAELIC.
"lean gu dlu ri cliu do shinnsir!"
Sons of the mountains awaken !
With hearts full of patriot fire,
And save, ere its beauty hath perished.
The language bequeathed by our sires.
We are proud of our peerless " Ard Albainn,'
Of each rugged pine-crested hill
Yet, how can we say that we love her
And consent that her voice should be still.
For in Gaelic she breathed forth her melodies.
Bards caught the soul-stirring strain ;
Whose echoes still play o'er heart-strings
In wild notes of joy or of pain.
'Tis Gaelic alone can interpret
The zephyrs that moan through her glens ;
Or translate the hoarse voice of the cateract
Borne from the mists on her bens.
'Tis Gaelic that rings in the blue bells,
And heather that circle her brow ;
'Twas Gaelic that sang thro' those forests
Where only the deer wander now.
'Twas Gaelic that laughed in the cottage.
As they danced after days spent in toil
In those homes, once the nests of contentment
And now of oppressors, the spoil.
;
;
—
And can we not hear in the wavelets
That babble along on the burn 2
Like soft Gaelic words of endearment
That welcome some loved one's return.
Each dark heaving billow that dashes
Its foam 'gainst our rock-begirt shores ;
Bears the rhythm of old Gaelic boat songs.
That measured the time for the oars.
The surf round our isles sobs in Gaelic
With tears it hath fonnd o'er the main.
From Highlanders cruelly driven,
From lands they will ne'er see again.
Ye dream not—who ne'er have been parted
From home, and the friends ye hold dear ;
What music hath each word of Gaelic
That falls on the sad exile's ear.
Our soldiers on red fields of danger
Hear it speak in the pibroch's wail ;
And they conquer or die for their couutry.
With a courage that never can fail.
'Twas Gaelic that fostered the spirit,
Led our heroes to do what they've done ;
Without Gaelic— that spirit must perish.
For its life and its language are one.
Ye who bravely are wresting your homesteads
From oppression's merciless heel
rescue our Gaelic
That destroys more than tyrants' steel.
From oblivion—oh !
The voice of " Ard Albainn " is pleading.
Shall she plead to her children in vain.
Oft "Gualainn ri gualainn" you've conquered.
And for her you must conquer again.
There are some very pretty sentiments in " My
Sprig of White Heather," some stanzas of which
are appended :
MY SPRIG OF WHITE HEATHER.
O ! poor little sprig of heather
Thou hast been with mo many a day.
But withered and dry are thy bonny bells.
And their bloom has all faded away.
Yet there's power in the shrivelled petals.
Sweetest music in every bell
That rings through my heart with wild magic tones.
And lays me under a spell.
I am borne on the wings of longing
To the hills of the Highlands again,
Where I see o'er the heather the tartan wave ;
To my ear comes the bagpipes' strain.
I see the fair braes of Lochaber
In the halo of sunset glow ;
And far away the blue mountain peaks
Wear their wreaths of eternal snow.
The breezes that blow through the birch woods
Bear the perfumes of all the wild flowers
That grow where the woodbine and ivy green
Are twined into fairy bowers.