 | The Western home |  |
269
SCOTLAND'S FAMINE.
There's weeping mid the lonely sea
Where the rude Hebrids lie,
And where the misty Highlands point
Their foreheads to the sky.
Where the rude Hebrids lie,
And where the misty Highlands point
Their foreheads to the sky.
The oats were blighted on the stalk,
The corn before its bloom,
And many a hand that held the plough
Is pulseless in the tomb.
The corn before its bloom,
And many a hand that held the plough
Is pulseless in the tomb.
There is no playing in the streets,
The haggard children move
Like mournful phantoms, mute and slow,
Uncheer'd by hope or love.
The haggard children move
Like mournful phantoms, mute and slow,
Uncheer'd by hope or love.
No dog upon his master fawns,
No sheep the hillocks throng,
Not e'en the playmate kitten sports
The sad-eyed babes among.
No sheep the hillocks throng,
Not e'en the playmate kitten sports
The sad-eyed babes among.
270
No more the cock his clarion sounds,
Nor brooding wing is spread;
There is no food in barn or stall,
The household birds are dead.
Nor brooding wing is spread;
There is no food in barn or stall,
The household birds are dead.
From the young maiden's hollow cheek
The ruddy blush is gone,
The peasant like a statue stands,
And hardens into stone.
The ruddy blush is gone,
The peasant like a statue stands,
And hardens into stone.
The shuttle sleepeth in the loom,
The crook upon the walls,
And from the languid mother's hand
The long-used distaff falls.
The crook upon the walls,
And from the languid mother's hand
The long-used distaff falls.
She hears her children ask for bread,
And what can she bestow?
She sees their uncomplaining sire
A mournful shadow grow.
And what can she bestow?
She sees their uncomplaining sire
A mournful shadow grow.
Oh Scotia! Sister! if thy woes
Awake no pitying care,
If long at banquet-board we sit
Nor heed thy deep despair,—
Awake no pitying care,
If long at banquet-board we sit
Nor heed thy deep despair,—
271
While thou art pining unto death,
Amid thy heather brown,
Wilt not the Giver of our joys
Upon our luxuries frown?
Amid thy heather brown,
Wilt not the Giver of our joys
Upon our luxuries frown?
And blast the blossom of our pride,
And ban the rusted gold,
And turn the morsel into gall
That we from thee withhold?
And ban the rusted gold,
And turn the morsel into gall
That we from thee withhold?
| The Western home | |