|
|
|
|
The
scent of thy hair
All
myrtle and heather, with vagrant
Wild
sweets on the air;
And
rowans thy cheeks, and red roses
Thy lips are, and bluebells thine eyes:
Thy
beauty the secret encloses
Of
moorland and skies.
Of
the calm and the storm of the ocean
That
girdles thy shore
Thy
moods have the stillness and motion,
The
silent and roar.
Thy
spring hath the whiteness of blossom,
Of
snowdrop and foam,
And
snowy in winter thy bosom,
Thou
warriors’ home.
O
Queen of the North! In thy story
What
heroes there dwell!
There
is tragedy, mystery, glory;
There
is Heaven and Hell;
There
are visions of seers, and the thunder
Of
battle, and harpers and bards,
And
pibrochs of infinite wonder,
And
honour, and valour that guards.
There
is truth, there is fortitude, fealty,
The
martyrdom loyal hearts bear;
There
is love that surpasseth in lealty:--
There
was Bruce, there was Deirdre the Fair;
There
was Charles in the dim corries ranging,
There
was Flora to cherish and save:
Though
the world change, thy Soul is not changing,
Thou
faithful and brave!
|