Janet Hamilton (Джанет Гамильтон)
The Highlands of Scotland
Queen of hundred ocean Isles, Rich in scenic grandeurs; Land of forest, hill, and glen, Where the tourist wanders. Land of torrent, lake, and stream, Wild sea-cliff and corry; Land of mist and legend old, Music, song, and story. Land that erst by thousands poured, From hovel, hut, and shieling, Loyal men, and brimmed their hearts With high, heroic feeling. Where, Oh where thy thousands now? Echo, wildly wailing, Gives mournful answer, Where, Oh where! Are our life's springs failing? No; the red deer yet are rife In dingle, copse, and forest, But the human form hath fail'd "When our needs are sorest." Titled Nimrod's keepers, rude, With their canine allies, Hold usurp'd dominion now O'er thy hills and valleys. Grouse and heath-fowl o'er thy moors See by thousands winging; Thousand sportsmen trace their flight— Thousand shots are ringing. But the hunted Celt hath fled Heath and burning hovel, For lands where man meets equal man, Not as serf to grovel. High Dunrobin's stately dame, While thy train was sweeping Through Victoria's royal halls, Heard'st thou not the weeping Of thy vassals in the wild— The young, the old, the hoary, The babe, the mother, stalwart forms In manhood's pride and glory? Famine, and the ruthless arm Of legal power, impelling, Drove them forth, while o'er their homes Red waves of flame were swelling, And mournful from the parting shore, A voice comes sounding ever, We leave thee to return no more, Ah! never—never—never.
Janet Hamilton’s other poems:
