IX.
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mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had,The air he chose was wild and sad;Such have I heard, in Scottish land,Rise from the busy harvest band,When falls before the mountaineer,On Lowland plains, the ripened ear.Now one shrill voice the notes prolong,Now a wild chorus swells the song:Oft have I listened, and stood still,As it came softened up the hill,And deemed it the lament of menWho languished for their native glen;And thought how sad would be such soundOn Susquehana’s swampy ground,Kentucky’s wood-encumbered brake,Or wild Ontario’s boundless lake,Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain,Recalled fair Scotland’s hills again!
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