Out where her miles of heather sweep,
Her dust of legend in his breast,
’Neath agèd Dryburgh’s aisle and keep,
Her Wizard Walter takes his rest.
And her loved ploughman, he of Ayr,
More loved than any singer loved
By heart of man amidst those rare,
High souls the world hath tried and proved;
Whose songs are first to heart and tongue,
Wherever Scotsmen greet together,
And, far-out alien scenes among,
Go mad at the glint of a sprig of heather.
And he her latest wayward child,
Her Louis of the magic pen,
Who sleeps by tropic crater piled,
Far, far, alas! from misted glen;
Who loved her, knew her, drew her so,
Beyond all common poet’s whim;—
In dreams the whaups are calling low,
In sooth her heart is woe for him.
And they, her warriors, greater none
E’er drew the blade of daring forth,
Her Colin under Indian sun,
Her Donald of the fighting North.
Or he, her greatest hero, he
Who sleeps somewhere by Nilus’ sands,
Brave Gordon, mightiest of those free,
Great captains of her fighting bands.
Yea, these and myriad myriads more,
Who stormed the fort or ploughed the main,
To free the wave or win the shore,
She calls in vain, she calls in vain.
Brave sons of her, far severed wide
By purpling peak or reeling foam;
From western ridge or orient side,
She calls them home, she calls them home.
And far, from east to western sea,
The answering word comes back to her:—
‘Our hands were slack, our hopes were free,
We answered to the blood astir;