The remainder is rather abrupt, at least much more so than the lovers
of fervid poetry could wish, especially as the termination is with the
following exquisite ballad:--
Our native land, our native vale,
A long and last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Lynden-dale,
And Cheviot mountains blue.
Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
And streams renowned in song:
Farewell, ye blithsome braes and meads
Our hearts have loved so long.
Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes,
Where thyme and harebells grow;
Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes,
O'erhung with birk and sloe.
The battle-mound, the border-tower,
That Scotia's annals tell:
Thy martyr's grave, the lover's bower--
To each--to all--farewell!
Home of our hearts! our father's home!
Land of the brave and free!
The keel is flashing through the foam
That bears us far from thee.
We seek a wild and distant shore
Beyond the Atlantic main:
We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again.
But may dishonour blight our fame,
And quench our household fires,
When we or ours forget thy name,
Green island of our sires.
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