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 CXVIII

A JACOBITE IN EXILE

THE weary day rins down and dies,

The weary night wears through : And never an hour is fair wi' flower,

And never a flower wi' dew.

I would the day were night for me,

I would the night were day : For then would I stand in my ain fair land,

As now in dreams I may.

O lordly flow the Loire and Seine,

And loud the dark Durance : But bonnier shine the braes of Tyne

Than a' the fields of France ; And the waves of Till that speak sae still

Gleam goodlier where they glance.

O weel were they that fell fighting

On dark Drumossie's day : They keep their hame ayont the faem

And we die far away.

O sound they sleep, and saft, and deep,

But night and day wake we; And ever between the sea banks green

Sounds loud the sundering sea.

And ill we sleep, sae sair we weep

But sweet and fast sleep they : And the mool that haps them roun' and laps them

Is e'en their country's clay;

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