POETRY.

Farewell to the land where in sorrow I’ve wandered! No more in your jungles will I seek to roam; My health and my wealth I have recklessly squandered. Amid scenes of strife, never thinking of home. But now I embark on the deep stormy billows, In hope of arriving in safety once more, Where oft I have seen the green weeping willow Sprout forth by yon stream at my father’s door.

How sad now the change at my father’s dwelling, For Death has transported my kindred away: I trust to the land where’s no weeping nor wailing; Where all is sublime and clearer than day. And now I’ll retire from the world and its sorrows, And seek some quiet spot to lay down my head, And banish away the thoughts of the morrow, For my friends and relations—they lie with the dead.

How oft have I thought, when toss’d on the billows, Of the land of my birth, and my friends all so dear, And oft, when alone, the crowding reflections Have brought to my eye the large blinding tear. How oft now I think on the days of my childhood, When the frowns of this world never darkened my brow— Of days when I roamed mid the oak and the beechwood, Beside that clear stream, where in splendour they grow. Since then I have braved many storms and great danger, ’Mid the roaring of cannon, in front of the foe; In the centre of carnage I’ve escaped the avenger— Now my time is expired, to Scotland I’ll go. Farewell! my companions and comrades in toil, May that spirit of bravery for ever remain, And carry you over that far distant soil To your Queen and your country again.

Adieu! my friend—a long farewell, Till brighter days will shine on me; The past, the present, I’ll reveal, And open all my heart to thee. When far away from India’s shore, How oft I’ll think on friends so dear, And call to memory times of yore, Our happy days and homely cheer. If poverty should be my lot, And leave me helpless, homeless too, I’ll face the storm with what I’ve got, Where oft I’ve wandered in the dew. If fortune should upon me smile, And cheer me through this world of pain, How willingly I’ll go and toil, And never leave sweet home again. When I arrive in Scotia’s soil, Your father and your mother dear Shall hear from me, and with a smile, Will banish all their doubts and fear. Farewell! companion of my toil, May health, may wealth with you remain, And bear you through that Indian soil, Until the day we meet again.

Our gallant ship she glides along, And leaves the land far on our lee; We listen to the sailor’s song, While toss’d upon the roaring sea. How dismal is the night, and dark! No star is seen above on high; The storm comes frowning on our bark, And thunders crash along the sky. How nobly does our vessel ride, Triumphant o’er the stormy waves; And all on board with faith confide On Him alone whose near to save. The storm abates, all hands make sail, The sun appears in all its might; The sea is smooth, gone is the gale That sprung up on that dreary night. Our course lies for the British isles— That land of liberty and fame, Where wives and sweethearts with their smiles Of kindness sooth away our pain. The dangers you have underwent, Methinks I hear their voices say; How many nights we’ve sleepless spent, Our thoughts on you when far away. Come to my arms! embrace once more The one who’s kept her heart so true; My love for you I’ve kept in store, And now the pledge once more renew. Ah! what is this? Is it a scar I see upon your manly brow— A stain of blood brought from afar; But all is past—forget it now.

How well I remember the morning I left home to travel afar, How eager my heart was a-burning To become a young gallant Hussar. I accomplished the task, and enlisted In a regiment all ready for war, With a spirit that ever resisted, I became a young Seventh Hussar. At the sound of the trumpet I mounted On my grey steed as bright as a star, And the dark roaring billows surmounted, As a brave gallant British Hussar. Our watchword is, “Charge, not Surrender!” It is spoke by our chief from afar; We our country from tyrants defend her— The brave gallant British Hussar. In battle our squadrons defended Our Queen in the late Indian war, The rebels’ career we suspended— The brave gallant British Hussar. My sword I’ll return to the scabbard— I’ll return to my home from the wars— My life I’ll no more put in hazard— Farewell! then, my gallant Hussar.

Farewell! my brave comrades, companions so true, May right, safety, and honour accompany you, When far from the land where we often did stray I’ll remember your kindness, when far, far away. I’ll bring to my memory the days that are gone, When we wandered together in search of a home, When the sound of the cannon brought our thoughts from afar, And we fought side by side in a long bloody war. How often with pride will I think on you all, For in danger we fought, made the enemy fall, With courage so daring, we our bayonets could wield, For the Cameron Highlanders never could yield. Accept, then, my comrades, so faithful and true, The affection and friendship of one who loves you; I will ever remember your valour and fame— Farewell! gallant comrades, we’ll soon meet again.

Transported with joy in the hopes of once more Arriving in safety on old Scotland’s shore, Where that band of ten-years-men, so loyal and true, Shall welcome the heather, the thistle, and yew. Now, before we do part, and without any boast, Let us hand round the wine-cup and drink to this toast: “Long life to the Camerons, a regiment so true— No stain on their tartan, nor their bonnets o’ blue!” As we sit round this table, let us now drink once more “To the sons of Lochiel on a far distant shore!” We have long wore the tartan with honour and pride— Farewell! gallant comrades—may good you betide. And now, my brave comrades—companions so dear— We have fought side by side with a loud British cheer! After serving our country with honour and fame, We retire from the service with nought but a name! Once more fill the wine-cup before we do part— Let us pledge one another with a soldier’s true heart; Mayhap in this world we shall meet no more— Let our hearts be united as they’ve oft been of yore. Farewell! then, farewell! the time’s drawing nigh, Tie the chord of true friendship that none can untie, Till that day when we meet where we never part more, In that land where our kindred has gone long before.

Farewell to the land of the thistle, No more on your mountains I’ll roam; Nor again will I blow on my whistle When in youth I lived happy at home. The advice of my friends I resisted I was bent a soldier to be; At the age of eighteen I enlisted, Intending a warrior to be. When the sound of the cannon did rattle, And the cry of Lochiel reached my ear, I was eager to be in the battle, With a courage that never knew fear. At the Alma the slogan was sounded, With the sun shining bright on our steel; The Russians in hundreds lay wounded By the sons of the gallant Lochiel. I have faced many scenes of great danger, (For honour at heart I did feel), To the foe I ne’er would surrender One drop of the blood of Lochiel. I hope, then, my country will cherish That band who always fought well; Ten-years-men with honour did flourish In the path of the gallant Lochiel.

When I look to my country, I cannot but say That the time-expired soldier does not get fair play; His exemplary conduct he proved in the field— He was put to the test, but he never would yield. After serving his country eleven long years, He’s forgot, he’s neglected, and look’d on with sneers; Awake, then, my country, and give us fair play— Give us share of the comforts before we’re away. Compare, then, the soldier who serves only one year, Getting flannels, tobacco, and soap it is clear; And the hardy ten-years-men, far, far from their home, With what valour they fought, and behold they get none. Dishonour to those who are placed in command— They are blind with deceit, and they don’t understand; Dispel them, I say, for I think its high time— To the army and mankind committed a crime. Where, then, are the men who have got any sense? Stand by the ten-years-men, and bring their defence To a court of inquiry, and then we’ll see there How the time-expired soldier does not get a share. I hope these few lines will be everywhere seen, And that some men of sense will explain to the Queen How her time-expired soldiers are left in despair— Are done out—what their country has left to their share.

My name is M‘Gillivray, of an old ancient clan, For my Queen and my country I’ve fought in the van— In Turkey, the Crimea, and India far-famed, And now on my breast wear the honours I gained. In the Sutherland Highlanders, a regiment so brave, I first joined the ranks my country to save; In the Crimea their daring was proved in the field, For a Sutherland Highlander never could yield. At the charge of Balaclava we opened our line— Not a move, not a breath—all was silent as time, Till one word from our chief⁠[A] gave the signal to fire, Then the enemy reel, and quickly retire. Again, at Sebastopol, a place far-famed, We struggled for freedom, and honour obtained; With courage and daring, unsurpassed in the field, We conquer or die, but we never can yield. The war being over, I’ll return to the spot Where in youth I did wander, but ne’er have forgot; But the voice of my country arose from afar, And calls me again to the Indian war. Our countrymen know with what valour we fought ’Midst the fire of the rebels, and in safety we brought Out from Lucknow our women and children so dear, All saved from the hands of the cruel mutineer. I now feel disabled, and return to the land Where in infancy oft I was led by the hand; With a hurt constitution, and spirits depressed, I will seek some quiet spot, and lie down to rest. The sound of the pibroch I will answer no more— No more will I wander amid scenes of gore; My sword I now shall to the scabbard return, And ponder o’er scenes where I oft did sojourn.

See the tender grass up-springing Where the snow and ice have been; List! the pretty birds are singing ’Mongst the sprouting leaves so green. Welcome to Glenferness Village, Spring and Summer; now once more With care the farmer tries the tillage; The soldier rests from scenes of gore. See the bees how they are swarming Round the fragrant tall palm-tree; The village children, neat and charming, Sporting in their circled glee. The woodman’s axe is loudly sounding On the trunk of some fir tree. While the roe is swiftly bounding In the forest—he is free. The birds are now in numbers singing, Sending forth their songs of praise; The church bells of Ardclach are ringing On the solemn Sabbath-days. What a change is joy and gladness From the carnage I have seen! Oh! my heart hath felt great sadness In distant lands where I have been. All is still around my dwelling, In this lone secluded spot; My bosom sighs, my heart is swelling— Once so gay—forget-me-not. Haste thee! haste thee! glorious Summer! From thy stay in other climes;— Yes! I welcome your forerunner— Spring, O Spring! bring happier times!

Silence reigns within my dwelling: No intrusion—quite alone; Still, at times my heart is swelling When I think on days by-gone. When my daily toil is ended I retire to this lone spot; Still, I’m cheerful and contented With the comforts I have got. Ye who lie midst scenes of pleasure, Would you venture to this spot? I would part some of my treasure With a friend to share my lot. What is rank but a delusion; What is wealth but a great sore; The gay encounter much confusion; The rich can boast of nothing more. Time is fleeting, t’will not tarry, I may change, but time will not; Since I cannot think to marry, I’m content with what I’ve got. With my faithful dog I’m cheery, Banished from the giddy show; Tho’ my dwelling is but dreary, Yet brightness will upon me glow.

In wandering alone by the banks of the Findhorn, I sat myself down by an aged oak tree; And in watching the course of the pure crystal streamlet, A voice in my ear whispered, “Fear not for me.” I turned myself round to see the fair stranger, And catch a faint glimpse as the sound reached my ear, When the form of a female, so handsome and lovely, Sat gazing upon me—in her eye was a tear. I approached to her side, and I said, “Oh! fair maiden, Come speak one kind word to this lone drooping heart; I come from afar, and I’m here but a stranger— Oh speak but one word, now, before we do part!” She whispered, “I’ve heard of your sufferings and danger: Will you come, now, with me, and share some of mine? If so, all my wealth will be at your disposal— Come, leave this lone spot for a more genial clime.” “Yes, charming fair creature! with you I will wander— I’m homeless and friendless—just as you now see; Yet, once I was courted by friends who now slight me— They care not for me: I will go with thee. Arise, then, my fair one—come, let us not tarry, This path you will follow, while I lead the way.” While speaking, a scream from my fair one aroused me— ’Twas she—but a vision—a dream of the day!

Gentle streamlet, onward flowing, Running smooth without a rill, Carrying waters for industry To this lone secluded mill.⁠[B] By your mild and gentle pressure On the wooden wheel you fa’, Which by its rapid revolution Sendeth round the circular saw. Tall majestic trees are carried To this lone sequestered spot, Which by the art of the saw-miller Are formed to build the rustic cot. Waft thee! waft thee! little streamlet, From thy rise in distant hills, Running on without obstruction, Onward to the water mills. Come, then, woodmen, throw your timber, While the summer months are near, While this gurgling little streamlet Unmolested runs so clear: Ere the month of cold November Comes with storms of sleet and snow, When the frost will stay the waters, Round the large wheel cannot go. Long I gaze and watch your progress, Running onward by the mill, While the circular saws are sleeping, Since the large wheel’s standing still. Come, then, ye who have got money, Buy your timber from the glen, While this little stream’s o’erflowing With water for the working men.

It was in the month of sweet July, Upon a Saturday, As I was rambling through the woods, A fair-hair’d girl did say:— “You’re welcome to this lovely spot— I see you’re from afar— You’ve fought and bled for Scotland’s sake In the late Crimean war.” I said, “O yes, my lovely girl! In distant lands I’ve been, And deeds of daring and renown I’ve often done and seen. Upon the Alma’s rugged heights The conflict was severe; And now I mourn for those who fell, Who never knew no fear.” “Come sit ye down, my bonny lad, And hear what I’ve to say, This heart of mine I will bestow On you this very day. A tocher of five hundred pounds My father left to me; And now I’ll share this sum with you If you will marry me.” “O generous, kind, and lovely girl! I see you pity me; You have my heart, you know my mind, Then let us married be; And let us go to some quiet spot, Where, free from grief and pain, We’ll live for one another, O ne’er to part again.” My wild career is ended, My rifle lies asleep, My doting wife is all to me; How often does she weep For all my sufferings long gone by, But now they’ll come no more; My grief and pain are left behind On yon far distant shore. Now sitting by the cheerful hearth I tell her tales of yore, How her gallant Highland laddie fought ’Midst strife and scenes of gore; And with her hands around my neck, Her smiles so bright and clear, She soothes away my former pain, My former doubts and fear.

Rest to thy ashes kindest friend, No more on earth I’ll gaze upon your smile; Let angels of redeeming love attend Your flight to realms beyond this stormy isle. Had I been near thy side when death was nigh (As oft in days gone by we met the foe), I would thy death avenged or cheerful die; But yet I live to hear this tale of woe. Your well-known voice I’ve heard in battle Leading on, with a devoted hand, Quite undismayed, midst cannons rattle, The soldiers of your native land. But, overpowered by numerous foes, You fought as British soldiers fight— Your single arm laid numbers low, While in your native garb you shone so bright.

Rest, soldier, rest, for your rifle lies sleeping, The war-note is silent, you’ll obey it no more; How sad is the change! I see you are weeping; Cheer up! there is something for you yet in store. Alas! I’m forsaken, I wander in sorrow, The once gallant soldier is left in despair; The friends of my youth they say “Come to-morrow; We’ll try and relieve you; what can we do mair?” The clouds that surround you, tho’ dismal and dreary, Shall vanish away, when in splendour you’ll shine; Your past life, that often was toilsome and weary, Is carried away by the current of time;— Yes, Time, thou art fleeting; in rapid succession Each day brings us nearer the verge of the grave; We all must depart, leave our homes and profession, And launch this frail bark on the deep stormy wave. Yet hope cheers me on, and is balm to my sorrow, The bright side of Nature will yet on me shine; The past I’ll forget, and I’ll wait on to-morrow— The die that is cast will come round with time. Farewell for awhile! till the dawn of that morning Shines on the front of my lone cottage door, I then will arise and go forth in the dawning, My hardships all past, to come back no more.

Not all the lands beyond the sea, Where oft I strayed and mused alone, Can heal the wounds which trouble me, As this, my native Highland home. The cedar tree I’ve often seen, And sat beneath its fragrant boughs; The myrtle I have watched at e’en Refreshed from heaven with dewy showers, But all the trees of eastern clime Are strangers to the birken tree; The mountain ash and smelling thyme Are healing virtues now to me. Yes, Scotland! thou art dear to me, Tho’ steep and rugged and tho’ cold, Your mountain breeze is balm to me— Your freeborn sons are stout and bold.

Hark! ’tis the war-cry of carnage and sorrow: The host now are standing in battle array; How many now blooming will fall e’er to-morrow: Alas! ’tis too late—they rush to the fray. Weep, ye fond mothers! for sons and relations Lie bleeding in gore, ah! ne’er to return To the homes of their youth, to enjoy consolation; They die for their country: weep ye and mourn. Heard ye the slogan? See, look, now, and wonder, They grasp one another in murderous fray; A thousand large cannon sounds louder than thunder: Weep, ye fair maidens! the avenger doth slay. See their pale faces, so death-like and gory— No smile from a mother to soothe down their pain; They die! yet their names are recorded in story How they fought for their country, their honour, and fame. The last gun has ceased from its death-stirring rattle, The soldier, now weary, seeks some place to rest: He thinks on his home, where in youth he made battle In innocence;—now he is put to the test.