And some at home.--Her mother love Keeps crooning wind-songs o’er their graves, Where Arthur’s castle looms above, Or Strathy storms or Solway raves. Or Lomond unto Nevis bends In olden love of clouds and dew; Where Trossach unto Stirling sends Greetings that build the years anew. Out where her miles of heather sweep, Her dust of legend in his breast, ’Neath agèd Dryburgh’s aisle and keep, Her Wizard Walter takes his rest. And her loved ploughman, he of Ayr, More loved than any singer loved By heart of man amidst those rare, High souls the world hath tried and proved; Whose songs are first to heart and tongue, Wherever Scotsmen greet together, And, far-out alien scenes among, Go mad at the glint of a sprig of heather. And he her latest wayward child, Her Louis of the magic pen, Who sleeps by tropic crater piled, Far, far, alas! from misted glen; Who loved her, knew her, drew her so, Beyond all common poet’s whim;-- In dreams the whaups are calling low, In sooth her heart is woe for him. And they, her warriors, greater none E’er drew the blade of daring forth, Her Colin under Indian sun, Her Donald of the fighting North. Or he, her greatest hero, he Who sleeps somewhere by Nilus’ sands, Brave Gordon, mightiest of those free, Great captains of her fighting bands. Yea, these and myriad myriads more, Who stormed the fort or ploughed the main, To free the wave or win the shore, She calls in vain, she calls in vain. Brave sons of her, far severed wide By purpling peak or reeling foam; From western ridge or orient side, She calls them home, she calls them home. And far, from east to western sea, The answering word comes back to her:-- ‘Our hands were slack, our hopes were free, We answered to the blood astir; The life by Kelpie loch was dull, The homeward slothful work was done, We followed where the world was full, To dree the weird our fates had spun. We built the brig, we reared the town, We spanned the earth with lightning gleam, We ploughed, we fought, ’mid smile and frown, Where all the world’s four corners team. But under all the surge of life, The mad race-fight for mastery, Though foremost in the surgent strife, Our hearts went back, went back to thee.’ For the Scotsman’s speech is wise and slow, And the Scotsman’s thought it is hard to ken, But through all the yearnings of men that go, His heart is the heart of the northern glen. His song is the song of the windy moor, And the humming pipes of the squirling din; And his love is the love of the shieling door, And the smell of the smoking peat within. And nohap how much of the alien blood Is crossed with the strain that holds him fast, ‘Mid the world’s great ill and the world’s great good, He yearns to the Mother of men at last.