HEATHER LAYS. 



'My mother sang a plaintive song, 



Which winter nights beguiled; 

 And as its echoes died along, 



She wept, and yet she smiled. 

 'My child,' she said I hear her yet, 



Her kind eyes bent on mine; 

 'Thou'rt young, and dost perchance forget 



That native land of thine; 

 That land of heath and mountain gray, 



So far from you and me.' " 



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