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778                                               Glenaradale

THERE is no fire of the crackling boughs
  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,
There is no bleating of sheep on the hill
  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,
Ah! we must leave thee and go away
  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,
We are not going for hunger of wealth,
  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,
Content with the croft and the hill were we,
  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!
No father here but would give a son
  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,

But the big-horn’d stag and his hinds, we know,
  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,


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