SONG. Written for the Scottish Gathering, in the Crystal Palace grounds, Toronto, 14th September, 1859. My heart leaps up wi' joy to see Sae mony Scotchmen here, Sae I maun sing about the laun, The laun we lo'e sae dear; We a' hae climbed her heathy hills, And pu'd the gowden broom, And wandered through her bonnie glens, But oh we ne'er again shall see Her burnies wimplin by, Nor hear the blackbird on the tree, Nor laverock in the sky; But tho' we've left the hame o' youth, In And wandered far and wide, every lake and stream we hear The murmurs of the Clyde. Oh when I left the mountains a’, I didna greet, but oh I drew Benlomond seemed to hide his head, Afar within the blue, And Leven with her hundred isles, Was murmuring adieu. We love auld Scotia's hills and dells, And yet fu' weel I ken, We love them mair that they're the hames O'simple honest men ; Wi' hearts as true as them wha died, Upon the bluidy sod, Ere they would let their freedom go, And should the sleeky Loon o' France, Ance mair upon his neck; A Highland host in Canada Will don the kilt again, And rush their native land to free, And brither Scots owre a' the earth, The spirit of the covenant, The blood o' Wallace and o' Bruce Then still the rightfu' cause maintain, And O whate'er ye do, Be faithfu' still to kirk and Queen, And to yoursels be true; And still where honour points the way, O never lag behin', Tho' it should be for naething but The credit o' your kin. SIR COLIN ; OR, THE HIGHLANDERS AT BALAKLAVA. The Serfs of the Czar know not pity nor mercy, Sir Colin, Sir Colin! why stand you thus idle, Why wake not the pibroch thy fathers have sounded, Thy band shall be hacked like the stripes of the tartan, M'Donald, M'Dermid, to glory adieu, 1 Gregalich, Gregalich, the shade of thy hero, May blush for his sons by his own Avon Dhu. Hush, hark! 'tis the pipes playing Hollen M'Garadh, The spirit of Fingal at last has awoke, But motionless all as the giant Craig Ailsa, When foam-crested billows rush on to the shock. The Muscovite horsemen roll nearer and nearer, Now sons of the mountain the shades of your fathers, Are looking down on you from yon cloud of blue, Be your souls as firm as the rocks of Craigryston, Your swoop like the eagle's of dark Benvenue. It is not the deer ye have met on the heather, |