Many a hearth round that friendly shore
Giveth warm welcome;
Charms still are there, as in days of yore,
More than of mountains;
But hearths and faces are seen no more,
Once of the brightest.
Many a poor black cottage is there,
Grimy with peat smoke,
Sending up in the soft evening air
Purest blue incense,
While the low music of psalm and prayer
Rises to Heaven.
Kind were the voices I used to hear
Round such a fireside,
Speaking the mother tongue old and dear,
Making the heart beat
With sudden tales of wonder and fear,
Or plaintive singing.
Great were the marvellous stories told
Of Ossian’s heroes,
Giants, and witches, and young men bold,
Seeking adventures,
Winning kings’ daughters and guarded gold,
Only with valour.
Reared in those dwellings have brave ones been;
Brave ones are still there;
Forth from their darkness on Sunday I’ve seen
Coming pure linen,
And like the linen the souls were clean
Of them that wore it.
See that thou kindly use them, O man!
To whom God giveth
Stewardship over them, in thy short span
Not for thy pleasure;
Woe be to them who choose for a clan
Four-footed people!
Blessings be with ye, both now and aye
Dear human creatures!
Yours is the love that no gold can buy!
Nor time can wither,
Peace be to thee and thy children, O Skye!
Dearest of islands.
Midnight by the Sea.
(Autumn.)
SIR NOËL PATON
Waves of the wild North Sea,
Breaking—breaking—breaking!
From the dumb agony
Of dreams awaking,
How sweet within the loosened arms of sleep
To lie in silence deep,
Lone listening to your many-throated roar
Along the caverned shore,
In midnight darkness breaking—breaking—breaking!