Heath flowers being a collection of poems, chiefly lyrical, written in the Highlands. By William Glen |
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I'LL NEVER SEE GLENORCHY MORE. |
 | Heath flowers |  |
16
I'LL NEVER SEE GLENORCHY MORE.
The moon looked o'er a broken cloud,
And beamed upon a scene of woe;
Pale, pale she viewed a warlike crowd,
At St. Sebastian far below;
And oft was heard a plaintive moan,
When paused the thundering cannon roar;
The feeble voice sighed, “all is gone!
I'll never see Glenorchy more!”
And beamed upon a scene of woe;
Pale, pale she viewed a warlike crowd,
At St. Sebastian far below;
And oft was heard a plaintive moan,
When paused the thundering cannon roar;
The feeble voice sighed, “all is gone!
I'll never see Glenorchy more!”
“Far from my home I lay my head,
While death's cold dew sits on my brow;
Let warriors boast of glory's bed,—
Say, what to me is Glory now?
O! could I, as in youth time, roam,
And all my native haunts explore;
How sweet to me would be my home—
But I'll ne'er see Glenorchy more!”
While death's cold dew sits on my brow;
Let warriors boast of glory's bed,—
Say, what to me is Glory now?
O! could I, as in youth time, roam,
And all my native haunts explore;
How sweet to me would be my home—
But I'll ne'er see Glenorchy more!”
17
Loud, and more loud, the cannons roared,
Their lightnings scathed Sebastian towers,
The war-storm all its fury poured,
While Britain showed her matchless powers:
But, hark! these farewel words of woe—
The bitterness of death is o'er,—
I knew the voice—it whispered low,
“I'll never see Glenorchy more.”
Their lightnings scathed Sebastian towers,
The war-storm all its fury poured,
While Britain showed her matchless powers:
But, hark! these farewel words of woe—
The bitterness of death is o'er,—
I knew the voice—it whispered low,
“I'll never see Glenorchy more.”
| Heath flowers | |