Classic Poem

Thou hast come with the smell of my dear native mountains,
And tales of the freshness of moorland and lea;
From the wild misty glens, where in glory thou bloomest,
A whisper of love thou hast brought unto me.
O dear to my heart are thy sweet purple blossoms,
That grow 'mong the brackens that curl on the braes,
And by the green banks of the clear winding rivers,
Whose murmers I hear, as upon thee I gaze.

Thou hast brought me the fragrance of briar and myrtle,
The bright shining gold of the furze and the broom,
The plover's wild cry, and the whirr of the heathcock,
That sleeps on thy bosom, and feasts on thy bloom.
Methinks I behold the soft fringe of the pine-tree,
The beautiful rowan, in scarlet and green,
And white foaming streamlets that rib the steep corrie,
Whose life-giving breezes are bracing and keen.

Thou hast whispered of cot and of high mountain sheiling,
Where heroes were reared in the days that are gone;
Of maidens that sang in their beauty and gladness,
Where now there is stillness, so sad, and so lone.
The clear silver fountains, that gleam in thy bosom,
No longer give life to our brave Highland men;
They refresh but the deer and the sheep, whilst our heroes
Are exiled afar from the strath and the glen.

Thou honey-sweet heather, 'mid visions of beauty,
And sweet songs of love that for me thou dost weave,
And memories soft, as the down of the canach,
That waves in the breath of the mild summer eve:
Methinks the last breeze that had stirred thy red blossoms
Had chanted the wail thou hast borne unto me,
A dirge for the brave, who will ne'er tread the heather,
Nor see thy dear mountains, thou land of the free.