'Tis said that the comforts of plenty abound
In the wide-spreading plains of the west;
That there an asylum of peace shall be found
Where the care-stricken wanderer may rest.
That nature uncheck'd there displays all her pride
In the forest unfading and deep;
That the river rolls onward its ocean-like tide,
Encircling broad realms in its sweep.
But is there a spot in that far distant land
Where fancy or feeling may dwell?
Or how shall the heart of the exile expand,
Untouch'd by Society's spell?
Though thy children, old Albyn! adversity bear,
As forlorn o'er thy mountains they roam,
Yet I 've found, what in vain I should seek for elsewhere—
I have found 'mong these mountains a home.
How lovely the beam on thy moorland appears,
As it streams from the eye of the morn!
And how comely the garment that evening wears
When the day of its glories is shorn!
Ah! strong are the ties that the patriot bind,
Fair isle of the sea! to thy shore;
The turf that he treads, by the best of their kind,
By the bravest, was trodden before.
Nor is there a field—not a foot of thy soil,
In dale or in mountain-land dun,
Unmark'd in the annals of chivalrous toil,
Ere concord its conquest had won.
The rill hath a voice from the rock as it pours,
It comes from the glen on the gale,
For the life-blood of martyrs hath hallow'd thy muirs,
And their names are revered in the vale.
How sacred the stone that, remote on the heath,
O'er the bones of the righteous was laid,
Who triumph'd in death o'er the foes of their faith,
When the banner of truth was display'd!
And sweet are the songs of the land of my love,
And soothing their tones to the soul,
Or lofty and loud, like the thunder above,
Or the storm-cloud of passion, they roll.