For there’s something strong and something true In the wind where the sprig of heather is blown; And something great in the blood so blue, That makes him stand like a man alone. Yea, give him the road and loose him free, He sets his teeth to the fiercest blast, For there’s never a toil in a far countrie, But a Scotsman tackles it hard and fast. He builds their commerce, he sings their songs, He weaves their creeds with an iron twist, And making of laws or righting of wrongs, He grinds it all as the Scotsman’s grist. Yea, there by crag and moor she stands, This mother of half a world’s great men, And out of the heart of her haunted lands She calls her children home again. And over the glens and the wild sea floors She peers so still as she counts her cost, With the whaups low calling over the moors, ‘Woe, woe, for the great ones she hath lost.’ _William Wilfred Campbell._ SCOTT CXCIX QUEBEC Fierce on this bastion beats the noon-day sun; The city sleeps beneath me, old and grey; On convent roofs the quivering sunbeams play, And batteries guarded by dismantled gun. No breeze comes from the northern hills which run Circling the blue mist of the summer’s day; No ripple stirs the great stream on its way To those dim headlands where its rest is won. What thunders shook these silent crags of yore! What smoke of battle rolled up plain and gorge While two worlds closed in strife for one brief span! What echoes still come ringing back once more! For on these heights of old God set His forge; His strokes wrought here the destinies of man. _Frederick George Scott._ CC IN MEMORIAM Growing to full manhood now, With the care-lines on our brow, We, the youngest of the nations, With no childish lamentations, Weep, as only strong men weep, For the noble hearts that sleep, Pillowed where they fought and bled, The loved and lost, our glorious dead! Toil and sorrow come with age, Manhood’s rightful heritage; Toil our arms more strong shall render, Sorrow make our heart more tender, In the heartlessness of time; Honour lays a wreath sublime-- Deathless glory--where they bled, Our loved and lost, our glorious dead! Wild the prairie grasses wave O’er each hero’s new-made grave; Time shall write such wrinkles o’er us, But the future spreads before us Glorious in that sunset land-- Nerving every heart and hand, Comes a brightness none can shed, But the dead, the glorious dead! Lay them where they fought and fell; Every heart shall ring their knell, For the lessons they have taught us, For the glory they have brought us. Tho’ our hearts are sad and bowed, Nobleness still makes us proud-- Proud of light their names will shed In the roll-call of our dead!