Poems by James Hyslop ... With a Sketch of his Life, and Notes on his Poems, By the Rev. Peter Mearns |
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| LXII. | LXII.
In a Foreign Land.
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| LXXXII. |
 | Poems by James Hyslop |  |
LXII.
In a Foreign Land.
When thou art in a foreign land,
Or sailing on the distant sea,
Amidst the sickness of the heart,
When there is none to comfort thee;
Or sailing on the distant sea,
Amidst the sickness of the heart,
When there is none to comfort thee;
When Sabbath comes, but not to calm
The passions with its silent sway;
Not with the holy prayer and psalm,
But seamen's godless revelry;
The passions with its silent sway;
Not with the holy prayer and psalm,
But seamen's godless revelry;
How sweet it is to steal away
From wine-cups bright and songs obscene,
And think of Scotland's Sabbath day,
Far, far amidst its glens of green.
From wine-cups bright and songs obscene,
And think of Scotland's Sabbath day,
Far, far amidst its glens of green.
Yes! sweet these thoughts, beyond all measure,
To him who wanders on the sea:
Not social, solitary pleasure
Is all that now remains to me.
To him who wanders on the sea:
Not social, solitary pleasure
Is all that now remains to me.
The sons of mirth and dissipation
May sing the songs they love so well:
With beings of my own creation,
In silence I delight to dwell.
May sing the songs they love so well:
With beings of my own creation,
In silence I delight to dwell.
The deep, dark sea, the burning south,
The welt'ring waves that round us roll,
Are all forgot when dreams of youth
Come brightly to the pensive soul.
The welt'ring waves that round us roll,
Are all forgot when dreams of youth
Come brightly to the pensive soul.
'Tis not the gun-room mirth I list,
The songs and oaths of midshipmen;
But heathfowl singing 'mong the mist,
Far in my native moorland glen.
The songs and oaths of midshipmen;
But heathfowl singing 'mong the mist,
Far in my native moorland glen.
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Not on the water's changeless blue,
Where spring's fresh flowerets never bloom,
I gaze—but on the purple hue
Of heath-bells 'mong the yellow broom.
Where spring's fresh flowerets never bloom,
I gaze—but on the purple hue
Of heath-bells 'mong the yellow broom.
Not in the burning forest dark
I hear the countless insects sing,
I listen to the morning lark
Rising at home in clouds of spring.
I hear the countless insects sing,
I listen to the morning lark
Rising at home in clouds of spring.
I walk no more where clanking chains
Embitter slavery's cheerless day;
But mingle with my native swains
In mirth amidst the fresh green hay.
Embitter slavery's cheerless day;
But mingle with my native swains
In mirth amidst the fresh green hay.
| Poems by James Hyslop | |