XXVIII.
"But we—the Highland-born, the free,
How could we struggle there?
Still in our hearts we felt the breath
Of our fresh mountain air—
We saw the shadows of the hills
Hang in the waters clear,
The purling of the distant rills
Was sounding in our ear.
XXIX.
"We sang the old familiar songs—
We sang them at the loom;
We sang of light, and love, and joy,
When all around was gloom.
O then, O then—the bitter tears
Rose to each aching eye—
O were we but once more at home,
Though only there to die!
XXX.
"Death came, but came not quickly. Pale
And weak my sister grew;
With sharpened pain and wasting sobs
Her heavy breath she drew.
At last I laid her in her bed
When she could work no more.
I kissed her poor, thin, wasted cheek—
I prayed—and all was o'er!
XXXI.
"I laid her in a stranger's grave.
And then I turned and fled,
I cared not whither—anywhere—
To earn my honest bread;
In any land where flesh and blood
Were reckoned more than gain—
Where tyrant masters did not wring
Their wealth from woe and pain."
XXXII.
O England—England! many a heart
Is sad and sore for thee,
Though basely, meanly, falsely driven
To dwell beyond the sea.
O England! if the bonny Rose
Was drooping on your crown,
Why did you stretch a cruel hand
To pluck the Thistle down?