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Post by Waverley on Jul 27, 2008 19:59:06 GMT 1
The Patriot.
HIS the great love of a great heart In which no selfish thought had part, A love that sought no other prize Than this-all things to sacrifice For her he loved-his native land. Of baser motives had he none, No hope of glory spurred him on, No love of battle, lust or strife, He only knew he gave his life For her he loved-his native land.
His grave is 'neath an alien sky; No marble pillar rearing high Doth mark the place where he is laid, Who faced Hell's fury, unafraid, For her he loved-his native land.
R. BLYTH.
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Post by Waverley on Jul 27, 2008 20:29:47 GMT 1
Breathes there a Man-?
I SIGH to be in Glesca just to hear the blackcock call
Beside the gloomy forests round the Rue de Sauchiehll,
To pll a bunch of heather off the breezy Broomielaw,
And chase the capercailzies down the glades of Kelvinhaugh.
In visions of Mount Vernon, with its bright eternal snow,
I've seen the homing eagles in the golden evening glow.
I yearn to see the pinnacles of classic Gilmorehill,
And stray through dewy Gorbals where the Nuts are hard nuts still.
There are rare deer in Strathbungo, very shy and swaddie-proof,
Who come a-ranging coyly from the shades of Crossmyloof.
Oh, my country! Oh, my kindred! Oh, my clachan on the Clyde!
I'm wearying to taste again the tarts of Ke!vinside.
There are kelpies in the Kelvin, possils out in Possilpark,
In Bearsden the genus Ursus still pursues man for a lark;
Yet I'll brave these terrors, darling, for your sake time and again, So you'll see me questing gaily up the scaurs of Rutherglen,
Should you come by Ecclefechan, by the Millgates of Millguy,
By Trongate dens and buts-and-bens, and Calton, too, ach ay !
You may hear my phlapping philabeg a-philabegging, lass,
As shanks' nag goes wlloping along the Schipka Pass.
So wait for me, my dearie, for your lusty man of war,
And you should dine-eh-table d'hote in the halls of Grosvenor.
W. J. F. HUTCHESON.
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