Original Poetry.

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 388, 15 October 1903, Page 5

Original Poetry.

MY HIGHLAND HOME. My dearest mountains, vales and dales, Ah ! scenery of noble work, Where oft in childhood's days I strayed Midst gurgling streamlets flowing forth. And as they leaped with murmuring sounds, Methought sweet songs of love and mirth, As if to Heaven, duty bound, To'laud and praise Messiah's Birth. Mist-oapped each giant mountain tower, In wildest beauty heather clad. View down below eacli hazel bower. Where milk-maids chant, with hearts right glad. Where shepherd lads with hearts aglow, Attend appointments with each maid, And wooing, cooing, off they go. O'er hill and dale and ferny glade. Here sweetest music rends the air, As birds rang out their gladsome song When morning heraltls in the day, And sunbeams stray the flowers among. A paradise it seems to me, All nature clothed in mant'e green, Each giant oak and myrtle tree Add beauty to this hallowed scene. Oh ! cradle of the bravest hearts That ever stemmed fierce battles tide, Or ever quiver drew or darts To aim, to shoot, to hurl or guide, Thou nursery of heroes brave, Who scorned their foemen venomed fire, And ever claimed the victor's day With haughty, patriotic ire. Hark! down yon glen the pibroch shrill , Come rolling on the vesper gale, Inspiring souls with martial thrill Recalling vanquished dying wails. Play on of instruments, the King, Appealing to each heart like lire, Alternate, pensive, solemn ring, Defiant slogan of my sire. Like clouds of dust in whirlwind's lap The mighty Crosar here recoiled, Through every gorge and Highland tr.ip His legions baffled were and foiled. Unconquered sons of war and song, Come, join my chant in rustic lay ; Ye, who would scorn oppression's wrong, And ever crushed such into clay. Here Bruce and Wallace raised the men, With war like kilt and kin claymore, From heather'd dell and ferny glen, Triumphant rushed to shed their gore For liberty—so dear to all, In this, my own, my native land, They valiantly obeyed eacli call, And scorned their foemen's trebled band. Oh J for Burns' poetic fire, To sing, my native land, of three, When of all else my muses tire, In foreign lands across the sea. The thatched cot I now behold, Where first I saw the light of day ; Tho' weather-beaten, grey and old, My yearning heart to thee will stray. Here first I knelt at mother's knee, In childish accents worshipped God ; Here sweetest songs were sung to me, When taught to love and serve the Lord. Here counsels sweet to me were given, From mother's heart of fondest love, She taught me aye the path to Heaven, And urged me me«t her there above. My dearest mountains, fare thee well; I now must cross the raging foam; In foreign lands,'perhaps to dwell, In some excluded clime to roam. But ever in this heart of mine, Sweet memories of thee shall burn, And oh I perchance, some future time, I may again to thee return. A C Robertson. Alexandra, October 12th.