HEATHER LAYS. 



Scotch Heather 



Bright purple bloom of Scotland's hills, 

 Garb of her mountains, glens and rills, 

 At sight of thee my bosom fills 



With memories proud, 

 Of tartans, thistles, snuff, meal-mills, 



And mist-wet cloud. 



Thy stem is like some fir-tree green 

 With twinkling bells hung thick between ; 

 Pressed to the earth, thou low dost lean, 



But scorns to break, 

 Up-springing quick as ne'er had been 



Foot on thy neck. 



Thou'rt like the man when Fortune's tread 

 Falls fell and crushing on his head 

 Who bows, but when the blow has sped 



With dauntless will 

 He struggles up from sorrow's bed, 



A soldier still. 



On storm-crest crags of dusky white 

 Where brackens wave their fans of light, 

 And rowans drop their berries bright 



The clefts between; 

 Thy breast of purple on the height 



So richly seen. 



