Poems (Truesdell)/Scotland

by Helen Truesdell

SCOTLAND.

Land of the mountain and the dale!
 Thou land of deathless fame!
I proudly write on this fair page
 Thy ever-during name.

I fling my banner to the breeze,
 I loudly call on thee
To aid me by my power of song,
 Bright land of minstrelsy!

Ye sons of genius, who would seek
 A shrine whereon to lay
The purest offering of your heart,
 'Tis Scotland points the way.

Not to the wealthy or the great,
 Doth intellect belong,—
The poet in his low thatched cot
 Can pour his soul in song.

And while I for a model seek,
 Mine eve instinctive turns,
And fondly wreathed around my heart,
 I find the name of Burns.

Who does not love the author well,
 Of that enchanting tune,
Which sweetly steals across the heart—
 The "Braes o' Bonnie Doon?"

I loved it in my happier hours;
 I love it better now;
Since I, like that lone one, have learned
 To mourn a broken vow.

And should my fancy seek to rove
 'Mid scenes of beauty wild,
I'd turn to thee, thou gifted Scot!
 Fair Scotia's darling child!

Should warriors, too, engross my pen,
 And claim from me their due,
I'd twine a wreath for gallant Bruce,
 And one for Wallace too.

Sure, bolder chieftains never trod,
 E'en on our own loved shore,
Than they, with belt and tartan plaid,
 Their Highland heather o'er.

Statesmen! the mighty Mansfield stands
 A pattern for you all;
A nobler voice was never heard
 In council or in hall.

Divines! you too may emulate
 The Covenanter's zeal;
Who seeks, by penitence and tears,
 His every sin to heal.

Behold in burrows of the earth,
 With fasting and with care,
The persecuted Christian kneels,
 And lifts his soul in prayer.

In this religion has he lived,—
 His purposes are high,—
And like his gentle, captive Queen,
 For it he'd even die.