HEATHER LAYS. 



The Heather at My Door 



If I were king of France, that noble fine land, 



And the gold was elbow deep within my chests, 

 And my castles lay in scores along the wine-land 



With towers as high as where the eagle nests ; 

 If harpers sweet, and swordsmen stout and vaunting 



My history sang, my stainless tartan wore, 

 Was not my fortune poor, with one thing wanting 



The heather at my door. 



My galleys every ocean might be sailing, 



Robbing the isles and sacking hold and keep, 

 My chevaliers with loyalty unfailing 



Might bring me back of cattle, horse and sheep, 

 Soft arms be round my neck, the young heart's tether, 



And true love-kisses all the night might fill, 

 But oh! Machree, if I had not the heather 



Before me on the hill. 



A hunter's fare is all I would be craving, 



A shepherd's plaiding and a beggar's pay, 

 If I might earn them where the heather, waving, 



Gave fragrance all the day. 

 The stars might see me, homeless one and weary, 



Without a roof to fend me from the dew, 

 And still, content, I'd find a bedding cheery, 



Where'er the heather grew. 



Neil Munro, in "Blackwood's Magazine," 1896. 

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