This page needs to be proofread.
FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH. 119
Still, still, sweet Queen of Caledon, My spirit turns to thee.
There may, indeed, be richer realms,
AVliere pride and splendor roll, But thou art skilled to soothe the pang
That rives the stranger s soul ; There may, perchance, be those who say
Thy mountain-land is drear, Yet thou hast still the wealth that wins
The stranger s grateful tear :
And when, my weary wanderings o er,
I seek my native land, And by mine ingle-side once more
Do clasp the kindred hand, And when my listening children ask
For tales of land and sea, Their hands a wreath of love shall twine,
Edina, dear, for thee.
�� �
