THE MAGIC OF THE HEATHER. 



The Wee Sprig o' Heather 



Oh, wae on the gowd wi' its glamour beguilin' 



The bravest frae Scotia across the saut sea, 

 An' wae on Dame Fortune, sae fause wi' her smilin', 



For cauld is the pleasure at best she can gie. 

 But aye tae the heart that is leal mair endearin' 



A message o' love frae the land far awa, 

 When aften it comes like a sun-blink sae cheerin', 



A wee sprig o' heather sae withered and sma'. 



The emigrant dreams o' his hame in the gloamin' 



An' wanders in fancy some wild glen sae green ; 

 His thochts are the purest, wi' memory, when roamin' 



The land where the bluebell and thistle are seen. 

 An' aften the gloom that enshrouds him brings beamin' ; 



Affection's sweet token dispellin' it a' 

 As brichtly in darkness the starnie is gleamin' ; 



A sprig o' his ain native heather sae sma'. 



The burnie that's glidin' sae sweetly an' singin' 

 Awa' frae its hame in the mountain sae hie, 

 Ne'er kens in its mirth that the future is bringin' 



The tempest an' roar o' the dark-tossin' sea ; 

 An' sae wi' the lad owre the ocean careerin' 



Like strains frae the harp are the win's when they 



blaw; 



Till wearit the bricht sun o' hope disappearin' 

 He langs for a tuft o' heather sae sma'. 



John MacFarlane, in "Heather and Harebell." 

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