The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell ... Now first collected and edited, with memoir, by Robert Howie Smith |
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THE EXILE'S RETURN—SONG. |
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 | The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell |  |
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THE EXILE'S RETURN—SONG.
Harsh is he who brands with shame
A loyal Scot's unsullied name;
True his heart and fair his fame,
Who now in dust is sleeping.
From Stuart's flow'd our wealth and pride—
My sire, on lov'd Loch Erroch Side,
The summons heard—he fought and died,
And left his orphan weeping.
A loyal Scot's unsullied name;
True his heart and fair his fame,
Who now in dust is sleeping.
From Stuart's flow'd our wealth and pride—
My sire, on lov'd Loch Erroch Side,
The summons heard—he fought and died,
And left his orphan weeping.
Ah! had he liv'd to mark the fate
Of those who brav'd cool William's hate,
Then had he drank the dregs, though late,
Of sorrow's bitter potion.
Heir of misfortune, not disgrace,
Shame ne'er crimson'd o'er my face,
The lone, lost remnant of our race,
I cross'd the Western Ocean.
Of those who brav'd cool William's hate,
Then had he drank the dregs, though late,
Of sorrow's bitter potion.
Heir of misfortune, not disgrace,
Shame ne'er crimson'd o'er my face,
The lone, lost remnant of our race,
I cross'd the Western Ocean.
My fortunes bounteous heaven bless'd,
My wealth increased, lov'd and caress'd,
Yet still my soul in vain sought rest
Amidst these friends caressing.
To tread again my native shore,
To share with those I lov'd my store,
To see Loch Erroch Side once more,
Beam'd hope's benignest blessing.
My wealth increased, lov'd and caress'd,
Yet still my soul in vain sought rest
Amidst these friends caressing.
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To share with those I lov'd my store,
To see Loch Erroch Side once more,
Beam'd hope's benignest blessing.
Ah! little reck'd 'midst my fears,
The havoc of the lapse of years,
Since beggar'd, fatherless, in tears,
I hasten'd far from danger.
How false the picture fancy drew,
How chang'd those scenes that well I knew!
No friend is left—Scotland, adieu!
I am indeed a stranger.
The havoc of the lapse of years,
Since beggar'd, fatherless, in tears,
I hasten'd far from danger.
How false the picture fancy drew,
How chang'd those scenes that well I knew!
No friend is left—Scotland, adieu!
I am indeed a stranger.
| The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell | |