Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
VII. Death: Immortality: HeavenMy Ain Countree
Mary Lee Demarest (18381888)
I
For the langed-for hame-bringing, an’ my Father’s welcome smiles;
I ’ll never be fu’ content, until mine een do see
The shining gates o’ heaven an’ my ain countree.
The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae;
But these sights an’ these soun’s will as naething be to me,
When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree.
To his ain royal palace his banished hame will bring:
Wi’ een an’ wi’ hearts runnin’ owre, we shall see
The King in his beauty in our ain countree.
But there they ’ll never vex me, nor be remembered mair;
His bluid has made me white, his hand shall dry mine e’e,
When he brings me hame at last, to my ain countree.
I wad fain be ganging noo, unto my Saviour’s breast;
For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless lambs like me,
And carries them himse’ to his ain countree.
He ’ll keep his tryst wi’ me, at what hour I dinna ken;
But he bids me still to wait, an’ ready aye to be,
To gang at ony moment to my ain countree.
For the soun’ing o’ his footfa’ this side the shining gate;
God gie his grace to ilk ane wha listens noo to me,
That we a’ may gang in gladness to our ain countree.