WALTER CHALMERS SMITH
There is no bleating of sheep on the hill
Where the mists linger, There is no sound of the low hand-mill
Ground by the women, And the smith's hammer is lying still
By the brown anvil, Glenaradale.
Ah' we must leave thee and go away
Far from Ben Luibh, Far from the graves where we hoped to lay
Our bones with our fathers', Far from the kirk where we used to pray
Lowly together, Glenaradale.
We are not going for hunger of wealth,
For the gold and silver, We are not going to seek for health
On the flat prairies, Nor yet for the lack of fruitful tilth
On thy green pastures, Glenaradale.
Content with the croft and the hill were we,
As all our fathers, Content with the fish in the lake to be
Carefully netted,
And garments spun of the wool from thee, O black-faced wether Of Glenaradale!
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