THE MAGIC OF THE HEATHER. 



On a Spray of Heather 



Far from its native moorland, 



Or crest of "wine-red" hill, 

 At sight or scent of heather 



The hearts of Scotsmen thrill. 



Though crushed its purple blossoms, 



Its tender stems turned brown, 

 It brings romantic Highlands 



Into prosaic town. 



The clans are on the border, 



The chiefs are in the fray; 

 We're keen upon their footsteps 



With Walter Scott to-day. 



Peat smoke from Lowland cottage 



Floats curling up, and turns 

 Our dreams towards quiet hearthstones, 



And melodies of Burns. 



And last our fancy lingers 



With fond regret and vain, 

 Where sleeps our Tusitala 



Beneath the tropic rain 



Far from the purple heather 



Or gleaming rowan bough, 

 Alone on mountain summit, 



"Our hearts remember how." 

 St. Andrew's Day. 



-From "Bramble Brae," by Robert Bridges. Copy- 

 right, 1902, Charles Scribner's Sons. 



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