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?
Wild cries the Winter, loud through all our valleys
The midnights roar, the grey noons echo back;
About the scalloped coasts the eager galleys
Beat for kind harbours from the horizons black;
We tread the miry roads, the rain-drenched heather,
We are the men, we battle, we endure!
God’s pity for you, exiles, in your weather
Of swooning winds, calm seas, and skies demure!
Wild cries the Winter, and we walk song-haunted
Over the hills and by the thundering falls,
Or where the dirge of a brave past is chaunted
In dolorous dusks by immemorial walls.
Though hails may beat us and the great mists blind us,
And lightning rend the pine-tree on the hill,
Yet are we strong, yet shall the morning find us
Children of tempest all unshaken still.
We wander where the little grey towns cluster
Deep in the hills or selvedging the sea,
By farm-lands lone, by woods where wild-fowl muster
To shelter from the day’s inclemency;
And night will come, and then far through the darkling
A light will shine out in the sounding glen,
And it will mind us of some fond eye’s sparkling,
And we’ll be happy then.
Let torrents pour, then, let the great winds rally,
Snow-silence fall or lightning blast the pine,
That light of home shines warmly in the valley,
And, exiled son of Scotland, it is thine.
Far have you wandered over seas of longing,
And now you drowse, and now you well may weep,
When all the recollections come a-thronging,
Of this rude country where your fathers sleep.
They sleep, but still the hearth is warmly glowing
While the wild Winter blusters round their land;
That light of home, the wind so bitter blowing—
Look, look and listen, do you understand?
Love, strength, and tempest—oh, come back and share them!
Here is the cottage, here the open door;
We have the hearts, although we do not bare them,—
They’re yours, and you are ours for evermore.
Neil Munro.
