Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland, Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold. Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,

The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.

Spring shall come, come again, calling up the moorfowl,

Spring shall bring the sun and rain, bring the bees and flowers;

Red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley,

Soft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours; Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhoodFair shine the day on the house with open door; Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney— But I go for ever and come again no more.

R. L. Stevenson.

Canadian Boat Song

ISTEN to me, as when ye heard our father
Sing long ago the song of other shores-
Listen to me, and then in chorus gather

All your deep voices as ye pull your oars: Fair these broad meads-these hoary woods are grand;

But we are exiles from our fathers' land.

From the lone shieling of the misty island

Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas— Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland, And we in dreams behold the Hebrides:

Fair these broad meads-these hoary woods are grand; But we are exiles from our fathers' land.

We ne'er shall tread the fancy-haunted valley,

Where 'tween the dark hills creeps the small clear stream,

In arms around the patriarch banner rally,

Nor see the moon on royal tombstones gleam: Fair these broad meads-these hoary woods are grand; But we are exiles from our fathers' land.

When the bold kindred, in the time long-vanish'd,
Conquer'd the soil and fortified the keep,

No seer foretold the children would be banish'd,
That a degenerate lord might boast his sheep:
Fair these broad meads-these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.

Come foreign rage-let Discord burst in slaughter!
O then for clansmen true, and stern claymore—
The hearts that would have given their blood like water,
Beat heavily beyond the Atlantic roar:

Fair these broad meads-these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.

Anon.

To Exiles

RE you not weary in your distant places,
Far far from Scotland of the mist and

storm,

In stagnant airs, the sun-smite on your faces,
The days so long and warm?

When all around you lie the strange fields sleeping,
The ghastly woods where no dear memories roam,
Do not your sad hearts over seas come leaping

To the highlands and the lowlands of your home?

Wild cries the Winter, loud through all our valleys
The midnights roar, the grey noons echo back;
About the scalloped coasts the eager galleys

Beat for kind harbours from horizons black;
We tread the miry roads, the rain-drenched heather,
We are the men, we battle, we endure!
God's pity for you, exiles, in your weather

Of swooning winds, calm seas, and skies demure!

Wild cries the Winter, and we walk song-haunted
Over the hills and by the thundering falls,

Or where the dirge of a brave past is chaunted
In dolorous dusks by immemorial walls.

Though hails may beat us and the great mists blind us,
And lightning rend the pine-tree on the hill,
Yet are we strong, yet shall the morning find us
Children of tempest all unshaken still.

We wander where the little grey towns cluster
Deep in the hills or selvedging the sea,

By farm-lands lone, by woods where wild-fowl muster
To shelter from the day's inclemency;

And night will come, and then far through the darkling
A light will shine out in the sounding glen,
And it will mind us of some fond eye's sparkling,
And we'll be happy then.

Let torrents pour, then, let the great winds rally,
Snow-silence fall or lightning blast the pine,
That light of Home shines warmly in the valley,
And, exiled son of Scotland, it is thine.

Far have you wandered over seas of longing,
And now you drowse, and now you well may weep,
When all the recollections come a-thronging,

Of this rude country where your fathers sleep.

They sleep, but still the hearth is warmly glowing
While the wild Winter blusters round their land;
That light of Home, the wind so bitter blowing—
Look, look and listen, do you understand?

Love, strength, and tempest-oh, come back and share them!

Here is the cottage, here the open door;

We have the hearts, although we do not bare them,-
They're yours, and you are ours for evermore.

Neil Munro.

Glenaradale

HERE is no fire of the crackling boughs
On the hearth of our fathers,

There is no lowing of brown-eyed cows
On the green meadows,

Nor do the maidens whisper vows
In the still gloaming,
Glenaradale.

There is no bleating of sheep on the hill,
Where the mists linger,

There is no sound of the low hand-mill
Ground by the women,

And the smith's hammer is lying still,
By the brown anvil,
Glenaradale.

Ah! we must leave thee, and go away
Far from Ben Luibh,

Far from the graves where we hoped to lay
Our bones with our fathers,

Far from the kirk where we used to pray
Lowly together,
Glenaradale.

We are not going for hunger of wealth,
For the gold and silver;

We are not going to seek for health
On the flat prairies;

Nor yet for the lack of fruitful tilth,
On thy green pastures,
Glenaradale.

Content with the croft and the hill were we,
As all our fathers,

Content with the fish in the lake to be
Carefully netted,

And garments spun of the wool from thee,
O black-faced wether

Of Glenaradale.

No father here but would give a son
For the old country,

And his mother the sword would have girded on
To fight her battles;

Many 's the battle that has been won
By the brave tartans,
Glenaradale.

But the big-horned stag and his hinds, we know, In the high corries,

And the salmon that swirls the pool below

Where the stream rushes,

Are more than the hearts of men,

and so

We leave thy green valley,

Glenaradale.

Dr. W. Smith.