Classic Poem

L OV'D badge o' my country! ah, why art thou here,
Sae far frae auld Scotland, the land we love dear?
This is not our country, we're exiled afar
Frae mighty Benlomond and " dark Lochnagar. "
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

What a host o' Scots worthies, the living and dead,
Hae crown'd wi' a glory our auld mother's head!
With sigh sympathetic they ilk ane appear, —
I see them, lov'd thistle, approaching us here.

Tho' I ne'er saw them living, I ken them richt weel;
I know the lov'd face o' each leal-hearted chiel.
Ha! there the great minstrel, the soul of the north,
Wi' smiles, tears, and tempests, stalks sturdily forth.

He brings Highland Mary in beauty array'd;
Death steals not that beauty, it never can fade:
Like a vision of Eden, thro' good and thro' ill,
That form and those features hae haunted me still.

But see, belov'd thistle, e'en Scott in his joy
Comes on wi' his troopers and dauntless Rob Roy;
There, steel-cover'd barons and grim kilted thanes,
And tall plaided chieftains, and royal grand-dames;

There, kings wi' their sceptres, blue gowns wi' their bags,
High pedigreed damsels, and auld wither'd hags;
And puir hunted " Hill-folk " wha fought not in vain —
There, Burley and Bothwell are at it again!

There, " Meg, " as she tauld the auld laird o' her wrangs,
Or pour'd out her sair heart in wizard-like sangs;
There, tiltings and tourneys, and forays and feuds,
And robbers and reavers amang the green woods;

And fox hunts and fule hunts, and tyrants and slaves,
And half hearts and haill hearts, and true men and knaves;
A won'erfu' world, that was a' dead and gane
Till the wizard o' Waverley woke it again.

Another, lov'd thistle, to whom thou wert dear
As licht to the lovely, approaches us here:
'Tis canty auld Christopher, blithest o' a',
Weel kent by his am ringing, laughing hurrah.

Here comes a small band with a deep-measured tread,
Stern, earnest as that which at Loudon Hill bled:
Its leader stalks forth wi' a sad, solemn smile —
The shade o' the mighty immortal, Carlyle.

And yonder, great Chalmers, the second John Knox,
Whose sentences fell like Fate's terrible shocks:
His large human nature no nation could bind;
His love o' the thistle was love o' mankind.

The vision has vanish'd, the shadows are gane,
And yet, belov'd thistle, we arena alane:
These are the immortals that never depart;
They fade to grey visions, but dwell in the heart.