Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
GlenaradaleWalter Chalmers Smith (18241908)
T
On the hearth of our fathers,
There is no lowing of brown-eyed cows
On the green meadows,
Nor do the maidens whisper vows
In the still gloaming,
Glenaradale.
Where the mists linger,
There is no sound of the low hand-mill
Ground by the women,
And the smith’s hammer is lying still
By the brown anvil,
Glenaradale.
Far from Ben Luibh,
Far from the graves where we hoped to lay
Our bones with our fathers’,
Far from the kirk where we used to pray
Lowly together,
Glenaradale.
For the gold and silver,
We are not going to seek for health
On the flat prairies,
Nor yet for the lack of fruitful tilth
On thy green pastures,
Glenaradale.
As all our fathers,
Content with the fish in the lake to be
Carefully netted,
And garments spun of the wool from thee,
O black-faced wether
Of Glenaradale!
For the old country,
And his mother the sword would have girded on
To fight her battles:
Many ’s the battle that has been won
By the brave tartans,
Glenaradale.
In the high corries,
And the salmon that swirls in the pool below
Where the stream rushes
Are more than the hearts of men, and so
We leave thy green valley,
Glenaradale.