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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,
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,

Wi' gowans a' in bloom.

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,

And wandered far and wide,
In every lake and stream we hear

The murmurs of the Clyde.

Oh when I left the mountains a',

That was a waefu' scene,
I didna greet, but oh I drew

The bonnet owre my e'en;
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,

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,
Like thunder o'er the main.

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;
The spirit of the covenant,

W? every Scot remains,
The blood o' Wallace and o' Bruce

Is leaping in our veins.

Then still the rightfu' cause maintain,

And O whate'er ye do,
Be faithfu' still to kirk and Queen,

And to yourselves 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,
And many a turban is rolled on the plain,

Like dust the poor sons of the prophet are trampled,
And Alla il Alia, they'll shout not again.

Sir Colin, Sir Colin! why stand you thus idle,
Yon dark mounted masses shall trample thee o'er,

Sir Colin! Sir Colin! thy moments are numbered,
The hills of Glenorchy shall know thee no more.

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,
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 slacken a moment, now sweep to the shock,

One terrible flash, 'tis the lightning of Albin,
One peal and the tartans are hid in the smoke.

Now sons of the mountain the shades of your fathers,
Are looking down on you from yon cloud of blue,

Be your goals as firm as the rocks of Craigryston,
Your swoop 1':e the eagle's of dark Benvenue.

It is not the deer ye have met on the heather,
That is not thine own Corybrechtain's loud roar,

Triumphant emerge from that dark cloud of thunder,
Or die and behold the red heather no more.

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