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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