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[2] under Indian sun,
Her Donald[3] of the fighting North.
Or he, her greatest hero, he,
Who sleeps somewhere by Nilus’ sands,
Grave 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;
“The life by Kelpie loch was dull,
The homeward slothful work was done,
We followed where the world was full,
To dree the weird our fates had spun.
“We built the brigg, we reared the town,
We spanned the earth with lightning gleam,
We ploughed, we fought, mid smile and frown,
Where all the world’s four corners teem.
“But under all the surge of life,
The mad race-fight for mastery,
Though foremost in the surgent strife,
Our hearts went back, went back to thee.”
For the Scotsman’s speech is wise and slow,
And the Scotsman’s thought it is hard to ken,
But through all the yearnings of men that go,
His heart is the heart of the northern glen.