The palm-tree waveth high, And fair the myrtle springs; And to the Indian maid The bulbul sweetly sings. But I dinna see the broom, Wi’ its tassels on the lea; Nor hear the linties’ sang O’ my ain countrie. Oh! here no Sabbath bell Awakes the Sabbath morn, Nor sang of reapers heard Amang the yellow corn; For the tyrant’s voice is here, And the wail o’ slaverie; But the sun o’ freedom shines In my ain countrie. There’s a hope for every woe, And a balm for every pain; But the first joys of our heart Come never back again. There’s a track upon the deep, And a path across the sea; But for me there’s nae return To my ain countrie. _Robert Gilfillan._ STEVENSON CXLV IN THE HIGHLANDS In the Highlands, in the country places, Where the old plain men have rosy faces, And the young fair maidens Quiet eyes; Where essential silence cheers and blesses, And for ever in the hill-recesses _Her_ more lovely music Broods and dies. O to mount again where erst I haunted; Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted; And the low green meadows Bright with sward; And when even dies, the million-tinted, And the night has come, and planets glinted, Lo, the valley hollow Lamp-bestarred! O to dream, O to awake and wander There, and with delight to take and render, Through the trance of silence, Quiet breath; Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses, Only the mightier movement sounds and passes; Only the winds and rivers, Life and death. _Robert Louis Stevenson._ CXLVI EXILED Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying, Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying, My heart remembers how! Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor, Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races, And winds, austere and pure: Be it granted to me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home! and to hear again the call; Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying, And hear no more at all! _Robert Louis Stevenson._ MUNRO CXLVII TO EXILES Are you not weary in your distant places, Far, far from Scotland of the mist of 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?