The Emigrant Laddie.
By Jean Blewett
Though long, long leagues of land and sea
Stretch out between Braemar and me,
I'll win home late or soon,
Will take the old familiar way
Past Isla Glen, up bold Glenshee,
By sun-kissed hill and valley gray -
These feet of mine will find their way
At midnight or at noon.
The hearth-fire, and the cot of stone
Set 'mong the fir trees tall and lone,
I'll see before my eyes;
Hear rough winds kiss the heath-clad hill,
The murmur gay of loch and rill,
The mavis singing sweet and shrill,
Hear, warm and soft as notes that thrill
The souls in paradise.
A voice all tremulous and glad
Cries out: "A welcome home, my lad!"