THE MAGIC OF THE HEATHER. 



A wee bit barefit boy again I rin, 



Speilin' the braes, their heathery taps to win, 



Far past the bonnie broom, the thorny whin, 



Bluebells and gowans, 

 Blaeberries, hips and haws, and a' their kin, 



E'en bluid-red rowans. 



On moors whaur aft the "Fiery Cross" hath sped, 

 Whaur kilted chiefs their clans to battle led, 

 Whaur Roman, Dane and Southern foes lie dead, 



In bluidy graves, 

 Whaur Scotia's martyrs prayed, and fought and bled, 



The heather waves. 



Up whaur the mountain-tap is wreathed in cloud, 

 Up whaur the eagle soars, serene and proud, 

 Up whaur the storm-king hauds his revels loud 



'Mid winter's snows, 

 Far frae the busy, bustlin', babblin' crowd, 



The heather grows. 



Sweet heather bells ! your message and command, 

 I read it thus sae loving, strong and grand 

 "Uphold the honor o' the hardy band 



Frae whom ye sprung, 

 And love for aye the dear auld 'Fatherland,' 



And Mither tongue." 



William Anderson, in "The Scottish American." 



