 | Poems And Songs |  |
165
MY BIRTHPLACE.
There is a lone village, by woods sheltered well,
Just reached by the voice of the nearest church-bell;
No burn wimples through it with bright sunny flow,
No mountain towers o'er it with bonnet of snow;
No quaint feudal relics its houses conceal,
No marvels masonic its rough walls reveal;
No Bard dear to fame 'neath its thatch has been born;
It has no honoured oaks, and no love-hallowed thorn;
No artist with pencil and book lingers there,
No eloquent tourists its beauties declare;
It rose into being no mortal knows when—
And the Gazetteer deems it too mean for his pen.
Just reached by the voice of the nearest church-bell;
No burn wimples through it with bright sunny flow,
No mountain towers o'er it with bonnet of snow;
No quaint feudal relics its houses conceal,
No marvels masonic its rough walls reveal;
No Bard dear to fame 'neath its thatch has been born;
It has no honoured oaks, and no love-hallowed thorn;
No artist with pencil and book lingers there,
No eloquent tourists its beauties declare;
It rose into being no mortal knows when—
And the Gazetteer deems it too mean for his pen.
Yet no place to me hath a beauty so rare:
How softly the bell sent its Sabbath-call there!
How dear were its woods and its meadows to me!—
I knew every buttercup—knew every tree;
I knew where the earliest blackbird would sing,
I knew where the loveliest blue-bells would spring;
In spring, where the robin's warm nest I should see;
In Autumn, where hazels and brambles would be:
I knew on what thorn the best haws could be found,
Where chestnuts would fall, and where “rowans” most abound.
How softly the bell sent its Sabbath-call there!
166
I knew every buttercup—knew every tree;
I knew where the earliest blackbird would sing,
I knew where the loveliest blue-bells would spring;
In spring, where the robin's warm nest I should see;
In Autumn, where hazels and brambles would be:
I knew on what thorn the best haws could be found,
Where chestnuts would fall, and where “rowans” most abound.
There love bade me first shun the rude mirthful throng;
There first in my heart swelled the joy-spring of song;
There first, for my song's sake, my kin called me “fool;”
There friendship had birth that no trials can cool.
There first in my heart swelled the joy-spring of song;
There first, for my song's sake, my kin called me “fool;”
There friendship had birth that no trials can cool.
Away in the west crumbling Crookston was seen—
How smooth was the pasture-land stretching between!
And round to the west, when you let your eye roam,
Half-seen through the trees, peered the Baronet's home.
And yonder, where billowy banks swell so green,
The far-travelled river meanders unseen;
I hear its low music come o'er the moor still,
As the first star of evening beams o'er Bangor Hill—
When the last note hath died of the wood's vesper hymn,
And Crookston's rough outline grows dim and more dim.
How smooth was the pasture-land stretching between!
And round to the west, when you let your eye roam,
Half-seen through the trees, peered the Baronet's home.
And yonder, where billowy banks swell so green,
The far-travelled river meanders unseen;
167
As the first star of evening beams o'er Bangor Hill—
When the last note hath died of the wood's vesper hymn,
And Crookston's rough outline grows dim and more dim.
How bright were its waters when woodlands grew brown!
How grand were the floods which in winter swept down!
How grand were the floods which in winter swept down!
I still can remember my boyhood's delight,
To gaze on the ocean that grew in a night;
And how, as I gazed on the brown heaving sea,
I thought how sublime the Great Ocean would be.
To gaze on the ocean that grew in a night;
And how, as I gazed on the brown heaving sea,
I thought how sublime the Great Ocean would be.
Dear Village! in thee I had no worldly strife,
I left thee to enter the battle of life;
And till the last stroke of that battle is fought,
For thee I'll reserve a blithe dream—a sweet thought.
I left thee to enter the battle of life;
And till the last stroke of that battle is fought,
For thee I'll reserve a blithe dream—a sweet thought.
| Poems And Songs | |