110
When Zephyrus drives the red clouds i' the morn,
The lark upsprings
On her dewy wings,
From our sheltering sprays to the sky upborne,
And, soaring, sings
Her love for the wild and purple Heather,
Where her callow nestlings lie safe together.
Glorious, and glad, and dear are we,
Ringing our bells o'er the heath in glee.
Glorious and glad—and oh! most dear
Is the Heather-bloom to the mountaineer;
And dear to his children, who, laughing, come
And carry bright wreaths to their cottage home.
As the blessed things roam, neath their fairy feet
We rustling dance,
And our heads advance
Their innocent hands to gift and greet;
For childhood's glance,
When playmates laugh merrily out together,
Like sunlight shines on the bells of Heather
In our freedom we scorn such slaves as ye,
Your empty pride, and your vanity:—
Ye are fine, 'tis true—and neat and trim,
But are ye not shut in a prison dim?
Ye are captive slaves, though ye boast and sneer,
And think we should bow to your grandeur here.
