An gaidheal - National Library of Scotland

——!!;—;!;—THE GAEL. 125so closely to the terms as they are inEnglish HigMander. We merelysuggest this because we think thatconsiderable hurt is done to our oldand revered mother tongue by theliteral translation of technical termsand proper names, as if the languagewere impotent to furnish names inkeeping with its own genius andidiom. We are not of those whoask lightly, "What's in a name?"though we grant that "a rose by anyother name would smell as sweet,"and are willing to acknowledge theexcellent flavour of the Ard-alhannachand wish it a long and successfulSTANDS SCOTLAND WHERE ITDID?Land of the Bruce! I marvel how,With scarce a murmur, comeat thouTo let it seemAs if thy nameWere off the list of nations now.Shall a race who ne'er, as foes,Could their yoke on thee impose.Not in vainCeaseless strain,Now thy history's page to close?Up! or evermore disovraThy once well-won fair renown;If, of two.One must do.Let the Saxon name go down.Strange how word so brief as ScotSticketh in the Anglo throatThat Maelstrom,Like a doom.Gulping down all else we 've gotIs there any noble deedTold of men born north of Tweed?—Ten to oneIn Times or Sun,'T is of Englishmen we read!If a battle has been wonBy a Campbell, Gough, or Gunn ;Take the blows,Macs and O's,England takes the praiae alone.What delusion you conceive.You sometimes your Queen receiveYours, indeed!Can't you readShe 's only England's—upon leave.Scribblers of the Cockney school,Verily you 've crazed .John BullSaxon blood.Clear as mud!Who but he the world shall rule!Scotsmen, 't is high time that weCeased to feed such vanity;Time to showOur old foeHe is only one of three.Nobler 't were our rights to yield,Vanquished in the battle-field,Than thus beQuietlyWorse than from earth's map expelled.Teach we then those braggarts tallTheirs alone their ovra. to call,And save in drink,To never thinkThat England yet is all in aU.MY ROWAN TREE.[Written on receiving in Canada abunch of Rowan Berries taken from a treeplanted by the author when a boy.]Fair shelter of my native CotThat Cot so very dear to me,how I envy thee thy lot,My long lost Rowan TreeThou standest on thy native soil.Proud-looking o'er a primrosed leaThe skies of Scotland o'er thee smile,Thrice happy Rowan Tree !Well do I mind that morning fairWhen, a mere boy, I planted thee :A kingdom now were less my careThau then my Rowan Tree.How proudly did I fence thee round !How fondly think the time might beI'd sit with love and honour crown'dBeneath my Rowan Tree.My children's children thee would climb,Inviting grand-papa to see1 yet might weave some deathless rhymeBeneath my Rowan Tree.'Twas thus I dream'd, that happy day,I'd die to think my fate would beSo soon to plod life's weary way.Far from my Rowan Tree.