SONGS OF THE HEATHER. 



St. Lawrence rolls in grandeur, 



And Ottawa's dark tide, 



'Twixt banks o' bloom an' verdure, 



Sweeps onward sunny wide ; 



But a something here is wantin' ; 



And a licht that's gane is there 



By the Clyde, the Tweed, the Annan, 



When the heather scents the air. 



Oh ! hame's my heart in Scotland, 

 When the heather scents the air! 



John MacFarlane (John Arbory). 



My Heather Land 



My heather land, my heather land, 



My dearest pray'r be thine; 

 Although upon thy hapless hearth * 



There breathes nae friend o' mine. 

 The lanely few that Heav'n has spared 



Fend on a foreign strand; 

 And I maun wait to weep with thee, 



My hameless heather land. 



My heather land, my heather land, 



Though fairer lands there be, 

 The gowany braes in early days 



Were gowden ways to me. 

 Maun life's puir boon gang dark'ning down, 



Nor die whaur it had dawn'd? 

 But claught a grave ayont the wave, 



Alas! my fatherland. 



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