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Written for the Scottish Gathering, in the Crystal Palace grounds, Toronto, 14th September, 1869i
My heart leaps up wi' joy to see
Sae mony Scotchmen here,
The laun we lo'e sae dear;
And pu'd the gowden broom,
Wi' gowans a' in bloom.
But oh we ne'er again shall see
Her burnies wimplin by,
Nor laverock in the sky;
And wandered far and wide,
The murmurs of the Clyde.
Oh when I left the mountains a',
That was a waefu' scene,
The bonnet owre my e'en;
Afar within the blue,
Was murmuring adieu.
We love auld Scotia's hills and dells,
And yet fu' weel I ken,
O' simple honest men;
Upon the bluidy sod,
Or change their faith in God.
And should the sleeky Loon o' France,
His faith wi' Britain break, We'll help to put the Lion's foot,
A nee 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,
Will stretch a haun to save, They're no the chiels wad sit and see
Their mother made a slave;
W? every Scot remains,
Is leaping in our veins.
Then still the rightfu' cause maintain,
And O whate'er ye do,
And to yourselves be true;
O never lag behin',
The credit o' your kin.
OR, THE HIGHLANDERS AT BALAKLAVA.
The Serfs of the Czar know not pity nor mercy,
Like dust the poor sons of the prophet are trampled,
Sir Colin, Sir Colin! why stand you thus idle,
Sir Colin! Sir Colin! thy moments are numbered,
Why wake not the pibroch thy fathers have sounded, Which roused up the clansmen in battles of yore,
Till downward they swept like the tempests of Avin, Or demons all dashing with dirk and claymore.
Thy band shall be hacked like the stripes of the tartan,
M'Donald, M'Dermid, to glory adieu,
Gregalich, Gregalich, the shade of thy hero,
Hush, hark! 'tis the pipes playing Hollen M'Garadh,
But motionless all as the giant Craig Ailsa,
When foam-crested billows rush on to the shock.
The Muscovite horsemen roll nearer and nearer,
One terrible flash, 'tis the lightning of Albin,
Now sons of the mountain the shades of your fathers,
Be your goals as firm as the rocks of Craigryston,
It is not the deer ye have met on the heather,
Triumphant emerge from that dark cloud of thunder,