HEATHER LAYS. 



Home of the moor-cock, snipe, and deer, 



The gaudy pheasant crowing clear, 



The partridge brown, that schemes her fear 



With draggled wings ; 

 And dappled grouse, when man draws near. 



That whirring springs. 



Oft have I climbed the steep hill's side 

 'Mong hairsts of heather, deep and wide, 

 When sweet dust flew at every stride 



Like spendthrift's money, 

 And yellow bees could scarce abide 



The smell of honey. 



On thee has patriot Wallace trod, 

 Who bled to break the tyrant's rod ; 

 And oft the Covenanter's banner broad 



Has swept thy bloom, 

 Proclaiming at the pike's sharp shod 



Oppression's doom. 



But why should thy small purple flower 



Be dyed with blood in peaceful hour, 



On moors, where men who creep and cower. 



With guns resort, 

 To pour on birds a leaden shower 



And call it sport? 

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