I’m wearing awa’, John, Like snaw when its thaw, John, I’m wearing awa’ To the land o’ the leal. There’s nae sorrow there, John, 5 There’s neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair In the land o’ the leal. Ye were aye leal and true, John, Your task’s ended noo, John, 10 And I’ll welcome you To the land o’ the leal. Our bonnie bairn’s there, John, She was baith guid and fair, John; Oh we grudged her right sair 15 To the land o’ the leal! Then dry that tearfu’ e’e, John, My soul langs to be free, John, And angels wait on me To the land o’ the leal. 20 Now fare ye weel, my ain John, This warld’s care is vain, John; We’ll meet and aye be fain In the land o’ the leal. _Lady Nairn._ CLXVIII _ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD._ The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herds wind slowly o’er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain 10 Of such, as wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 15 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 20 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire’s return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 30 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour; 35 The paths of glory lead but to the grave.