Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/An Exile's Dream of Home

An Exile's Dream of Home.

It has been my lot in foreign lands, 'Neath sunny skies to roam,Where passing scenes have touched a chord That wakened thoughts of home;A noisy brook—a silent shore— A bird—a flower—a tree;Can bring to mind far distant friends, And days that ne'er can be.

When worn and weary oft I've lain By Gauges' noble stream,And thoughts of home and happiness Would crowd my troubled dream;How sweet on fancy's fairy wings O'er oceans wide to flee,To wander where the Ugie flows In silence to the sea.

I stood enraptured—yet alone When, lo! as by a charm,Another gazed into my face, And leant upon my arm;Oh. Well that lovely form I knew, More lovely now than ever,I pressed her to my swelling heart, And vowed We ne'er should sever.

With converse sweet the twilight hour Full swiftly sped away,'Till a golden stream of western light Proclaimed departing day;Nor till the lintie sought the bush— The laverock sought the brake—The rook the castle's ruined tower,— Our homeward course did take.

We wandered by the lone footpath, And crossed the haunted stream,Where fairies midnight revels keep Beneath the moon's cold beam. I heard a sound—I knew it well— It was the tiger's roar;I Started tip—the spell was broke— My dream of home was o'er.