"Tis the land of deep shadow, of sunshine, and shower,
Where the hurricane revels in madness on high;
For there it has might that can war with its power,
In the wild dizzy cliffs that are cleaving the sky.

I have trod merry England, and dwelt on its charms;
I have wandered through Erin, the gem of the sea;
But the Highlands alone, the true Scottish heart warms,
Her heather is blooming, her eagles are free.

THE EMIGRANT'S WISH.

ANON.

I WISH we were hame to our ain folk,

Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk,

Where the simple are weal, and the gentle are leal,
And the hames are the hames o' our ain folk.

We've been wi' the gay, and the gude where wi've come,
We're courtly wi' many, we're couthy wi' some;
But something's still wantin' we never can find
Sin' the day that we left our auld neebors behind.

Och I wish we were hame to our ain folk,

Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk,

Where daffin and glee wi' the friendly and free,
Made our hearts aye sae fond o' our ain folk.
Though Spring had its moils, and Summer its toils,
And Autumn craved pith ere we gathered its spoils,
Yet Winter repaid a' the toil that we took,
When ilk ane crawed crouse by his ain ingle nook.

Och I wish we were hame to our ain folk,
Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk,
Where maidens and men in hall and in glen
Still welcome us aye as their ain folk.
They told us in gowpens we'd gather the gear,
Sae sune as we cam' to the rich Mailins here,
But what are the Mailins, or what are they worth,
If they be not enjoyed in the land o' our birth!

Then I wish we were hame to our ain folk,
Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk,

But deep are the howes and high are the knowes

That keep us awa' frae our ain folk.

The seat by the door where our auld faithers sat,
To tell a' the news, their views, and a' that,

While down by the kailyard the burnie rowed clear, 'Twas mair to my liking than aught that is here.

Then I wish we were hame to our ain folk,

Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk,

Where the wild thistles wave o'er th' abodes o' the brave,

And the graves are the graves o' our ain folk.

But happy, gey lucky, we'll trudge on our way,
Till our arm waxes weak, and our haffets grow gray;

And, tho' in this world our ain still we miss,

We'll meet them at last in a world o' bliss;

And then we'll be hame to our ain folk,

Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk,

Where far 'yont the moon in the heavens aboon
The Hames are the hames o' our ain folk.