Littell's Living Age/Volume 173/Issue 2239/Forth

Not my own waves that thunder on the shore;
     Not my own wild wind sweeping o'er the seas;
Not my own music in the mighty roar
     That makes its chords of all the yellowing trees;
Not my own skies that shine in gloom and gleam,
     Over the turbid waters in their strife;
Not my own wide horizon's pale grey dream,
     In yon faint glimpse of the fair hills of Fife.
Yet, as two meeting in a foreign land,
     Hailing the subtle link of glance or tone,
Stretch eagerly to clasp a kindred hand,
     That pulses with the blood that warms his own,
So, yearning always for my English North,
     I linger, listening lovingly, by Forth.