Poems by Robert Nicoll Second edition: with numerous additions, and a memoir of the author |
 | I. |
THE PLACE THAT I LOVE BEST. |
 | II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | Poems by Robert Nicoll |  |
9
THE PLACE THAT I LOVE BEST.
Where the purple heather blooms
Among the rocks sae gray—
Where the moor-cock's whirring flight
Is heard at break of day—
Where Scotland's bagpipes ring
Alang the mountain's breast—
Where laverocks lilting sing,
Is the place that I love best!
Among the rocks sae gray—
Where the moor-cock's whirring flight
Is heard at break of day—
Where Scotland's bagpipes ring
Alang the mountain's breast—
Where laverocks lilting sing,
Is the place that I love best!
Where the lanely shepherd tends
His bleating hill-side flock—
Where the raven bigs its nest
In the crevice of the rock—
Where a guardian beacon tower
Seems ilk rugged mountain's crest,
To watch aboon auld Scotland's glens,
Is the place that I love best!
His bleating hill-side flock—
Where the raven bigs its nest
In the crevice of the rock—
Where a guardian beacon tower
Seems ilk rugged mountain's crest,
To watch aboon auld Scotland's glens,
Is the place that I love best!
Where the shepherd's reeking cot
Peeps from the broomy glen—
Where the aik-tree throws it leaves
O'er the lowly but and ben—
Where the stanch auld-warld honesty
Is in the puir man's breast,
And truth a guest within his hame,
Is the place that I love best!
Peeps from the broomy glen—
Where the aik-tree throws it leaves
O'er the lowly but and ben—
Where the stanch auld-warld honesty
Is in the puir man's breast,
And truth a guest within his hame,
Is the place that I love best!
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Where the gray-haired peasant tells
The deeds his sires have done,
Of martyrs slain on Scotland's muirs,
Of battles lost and won,—
Wherever prayer and praise arise
Ere toil-worn men can rest,
From each humble cottage fane,
Is the place that I love best!
The deeds his sires have done,
Of martyrs slain on Scotland's muirs,
Of battles lost and won,—
Wherever prayer and praise arise
Ere toil-worn men can rest,
From each humble cottage fane,
Is the place that I love best!
Where my ain auld mither dwells,
And longs ilk day for me,—
While my father strokes his reverend head,
Whilk gray eneuch maun be,—
Where the hearts in kirk-yards rest
That were mine when youth was blest
As we rowed amang the gowans,
Is the place that I love best!
And longs ilk day for me,—
While my father strokes his reverend head,
Whilk gray eneuch maun be,—
Where the hearts in kirk-yards rest
That were mine when youth was blest
As we rowed amang the gowans,
Is the place that I love best!
Where the plover frae the sky
Can send its wailing song,
Sweet mingled wi' the burnie's gush,
That saftly steals along—
Where heaven taught to Robert Burns
Its hymns in language drest—
The land of Doon—its banks and braes—
Is the place that I love best!
Can send its wailing song,
Sweet mingled wi' the burnie's gush,
That saftly steals along—
Where heaven taught to Robert Burns
Its hymns in language drest—
The land of Doon—its banks and braes—
Is the place that I love best!
Where the straths are fair and green,
And the forests waving deep—
Where the hill-top seeks the clouds—
Where the caller tempests sweep—
Where thoughts of freedom come
To me a welcome guest—
Where the free of soul were nursed,
Is the place that I love best!
And the forests waving deep—
Where the hill-top seeks the clouds—
Where the caller tempests sweep—
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To me a welcome guest—
Where the free of soul were nursed,
Is the place that I love best!
| Poems by Robert Nicoll | |