  V."We sowed the seed, and reaped the grain, With thankful hearts and kind; Our cattle grazed upon the hill That rose our homes behind. Each Sabbath-day we worshipped God Within the homely fane, All circled by the blessed graves I ne'er shall see again. VI."Our chief—ah, me! how proud were we That honoured name to hail, Was, like his fathers, true and just— In heart and soul, a Gael. His lands were narrowed in their range Since dark Culloden's day, But o'er our hearts the ancient name Still bore its ancient sway. VII."He loved us: Ay! he did not leave His old ancestral home, As many did, with stranger friends In foreign lands to roam. God's blessing rest upon his head, Alive or dead, say I; For 'midst his clan, though dwindled sore, He looked to live and die! VIII."And so we dwelt, in peace and rest, For many a changing year: Not rich; but riches never made A home so doubly dear. From kindly earth, from verdant hill, From river, loch, and wood, We drew the stores that kept us still In raiment and in food. IX."One year—I know not which it was, For it was long ago,— The summer had been cold and wet, And early fell the snow; A heavy blight came down from heaven On plant, and root, and grain, And what the pestilence had touched, Ne'er rose to life again. X."It was an awful winter. Want And famine raged around; Yet little felt we of their power, Within our master's ground. Our debts were few, our rents were small, And these were all forgiven— No heavier burden did we bear Than that which fell from heaven! XI."The spring came round—the primrose bloomed Upon the bank and brae, And blythesome looked the bonny glen Within the light of May. The lowing of a hundred herds, The voices of the rills, The bleat of flocks, the glad bird's song Rang o'er our Highland hills. XII."The blade was springing in the field Right healthily and green, With promise of the fairest yield That eye had ever seen. And joy rose up within our hearts, We feared no more decay, But thanked our Maker—who had ta'en The grievous curse away. XIII."O little knew we of the men Who ruled within the land; The days were gone when Scottish hearts O'er Scotland held command. The days were gone when valiant souls, Who knew their country's right, Stood foremost at the council board As they were first in fight. XIV."The spirit of the olden time, That blazed so bright of yore, Had died away, and no one spoke Of faith or honour more. They deemed this glorious earth was made, And vaulted with the sky, For nothing but to gather gold— To traffic, fawn, and lie! XV."And so they reared the chimney-stalk, And so they laid the keel, And trampled on the labouring poor With hard and heavy heel. A cold and crafty Southron carle Was lord and master there: No gentle blood had he who stood Beside the monarch's chair. XVI."He made his laws—I wot not how— But this I know full well, That ruin like a biting frost Upon the country fell. It mattered not how bright the sun, How bountiful the rain, The wickedness of man had made The gifts of God in vain. XVII."These were sore days. Within the towns Was naught but foreign bread; By foreign serfs beyond the seas The people now were fed. No work was there for us to do, No labour far or near; We dared not render thanks to Him Who sent a fruitful year. XVIII."The plough lay rusting in the field: We drove our cattle down, We sold them—'twas our last resource, Within a distant town. The poor dumb creatures! when they went I knew the hour must come For the like woeful journey next, To those that were not dumb. XIX."And so it fell. One weary day The bitter news was told, That the fair land we loved so well Was to a stranger sold. The race that for a thousand years Had dwelt within the glen, Were rudely summoned from their homes, To beg as broken men. XX."Some would not leave—the ruffians tore The crumbling thatch away; They plucked the rafters from the wall, And bade them starve and stay! The old, the bedrid, and the sick, The wife and new-born child— I thank my God I did not strike, Although my heart was wild! XXI."We parted—kinsfolk, clansmen, friends, With heavy hearts and sore; We parted by the water-side, To meet on earth no more. The sun was sinking to his rest Amidst a lurid sky, And from the darkening hill above We heard the falcon's cry." XXII."O wicked deed, O cruel men! O sad and woeful day! But, grandsire, tell us of your friends And kinsfolk, where are they?" "They lie within the festering heaps, Among the city dead— Scant burial had they for their bones, No gravestone marks their head; XXIII."Some died of want, of sorrow some, And some of broken age: They who lived on were sad as birds Cooped in a narrow cage. O children, with the savage beasts I'd rather lay me down, Than dwell among the stifling lanes Within a factory town! XXIV."Sharp hunger forced us to the mills; We slaved for scanty food 'Midst flashing looms, and buzzing wheels, And strangers rough and rude. From morn to night we toiled and spun Like beasts to labour driven, And only through the dingy panes We saw the light of heaven. XXV."Ay, there was room for all! The child That scarce could walk alone, The little ones we loved so well, The stripling and the grown; The modest maiden forced to bear The coarse and scurril jest; The old man with his silver hairs— The wife with babe at breast. XXVI."All, all might work—for England ne'er Had borne so high a name, Though not for Christian chivalry She strove to keep her fame. No longer streamed Saint George's cross The foremost in the air, Her glory lay in cotton bales And yards of flimsy ware. XXVII."For this we toiled, for this we span; For this all round and round Ten thousand chimney-stalks were reared Above the blackening ground. For this they made the reaper's song, The ploughman's whistle cease; And 'midst the clanking of the chains Proclaimed the reign of peace! XXVIII."But we—the Highland-born, the free, How could we struggle there? Still in our hearts we felt the breath Of our fresh mountain air— We saw the shadows of the hills Hang in the waters clear, The purling of the distant rills Was sounding in our ear. XXIX."We sang the old familiar songs— We sang them at the loom; We sang of light, and love, and joy, When all around was gloom. O then, O then—the bitter tears Rose to each aching eye— O were we but once more at home, Though only there to die! XXX."Death came, but came not quickly. Pale And weak my sister grew; With sharpened pain and wasting sobs Her heavy breath she drew. At last I laid her in her bed When she could work no more. I kissed her poor, thin, wasted cheek— I prayed—and all was o'er! XXXI."I laid her in a stranger's grave. And then I turned and fled, I cared not whither—anywhere— To earn my honest bread; In any land where flesh and blood Were reckoned more than gain— Where tyrant masters did not wring Their wealth from woe and pain." XXXII.O England—England! many a heart Is sad and sore for thee, Though basely, meanly, falsely driven To dwell beyond the sea. O England! if the bonny Rose Was drooping on your crown, Why did you stretch a cruel hand To pluck the Thistle down? XXXIII.There's many a name of noble fame Writ in your ancient roll; There's many an honest statesman yet Of free and generous soul: Why stoop to those who cannot walk With high and upright head, Whose living souls no kindred own With thy time-honoured dead? XXXIV.The worst of all—the thrice-forsworn— The gamester of thy fame— How dares he deem that aftertimes Will give him aught but shame? Let monuments be reared above— Of marble heap a hill— The peasant's curse upon his head Shall weigh the heavier still! |
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