The Battle of Largs A Gothic Poem. With Several Miscellaneous Pieces [by John Galt] |
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FAREWELL.
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 | The Battle of Largs |  |
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FAREWELL.
O England! though fertile and fair be thy bosom,
And stately the tow'rs that proud London displays,
Isighfor the scenes where the blue heather blossom,
And gay golden broom scent the breeze as it strays,
The hills of my country—alas! have ye faded?
Ye turreted cliffs, are ye lost to my view?
Farewell ye green holms, and ye lown lying vallies,
Dear haunts of my childhood, a long sad adieu.
And stately the tow'rs that proud London displays,
Isighfor the scenes where the blue heather blossom,
And gay golden broom scent the breeze as it strays,
The hills of my country—alas! have ye faded?
Ye turreted cliffs, are ye lost to my view?
Farewell ye green holms, and ye lown lying vallies,
Dear haunts of my childhood, a long sad adieu.
For now far remov'd, and with strangers sojourning,
Where the dawn of sweet friendship is ling'ring and slow,
The gale that blows chilly and bleak from my country
Makes pale-eyed Remembrance with gladness to glow,
Still fresh to my fancy, still fond to my feelings,
The high hoary mountain and deep hazel glen
Shall ever remain, where a pilgrim to Nature
I wander'd delighted, unjostled by men.
Where the dawn of sweet friendship is ling'ring and slow,
The gale that blows chilly and bleak from my country
Makes pale-eyed Remembrance with gladness to glow,
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The high hoary mountain and deep hazel glen
Shall ever remain, where a pilgrim to Nature
I wander'd delighted, unjostled by men.
Dear Scotland, though rugged and stern be thine aspect,
And wild the rude winds that howl o'er thy grey hills,
The joys of thy kindness, with faithful affection,
The warmest recess of my bosom still fills.
Still fills! yes, and ever, while Life's vital vigour
Revisits the fountain of Love in my breast;
And when all its throbbings are done, is my fondwish,
Beneath the green sward of dear Scotland to rest.
And wild the rude winds that howl o'er thy grey hills,
The joys of thy kindness, with faithful affection,
The warmest recess of my bosom still fills.
Still fills! yes, and ever, while Life's vital vigour
Revisits the fountain of Love in my breast;
And when all its throbbings are done, is my fondwish,
Beneath the green sward of dear Scotland to rest.
| The Battle of Largs | |