“A Voice from Beverley.

No. II.

Oh ! Loudon’s woods and Cowden knowes,1
Your absence sair I mourn,—2
A captive held in tyrant’s thrall,3
From love and freedom torn.4
But yet, by fancy pictured bright,5
My happy home I see,6
And roam again my native hills,7
In fancy, love, with thee.8
Again I see the sun’s first ray 9
Gild Loudon’s braes sae green ;10
And meet the approach-of op’ning day,11
By Gala’s silver stream ;12
And frae fam’d Dryburgh’s heights I view13
The gloamin’s thickening gloom14
Her mantle throw o’er Leader haughs15
And Loudon s bonny broom.16
But, oh! these fleeting joys are but17
The shadow’s airy form,18
Or wintry sun on Tweed’s fair stream,19
When swollen by winter’s storm ;20
Or, like the lightning’s vivid flash,21
That darkness brings to view,22
I only feel the want the mair,23
Of freedom, love, and you.24
The storm around me darker grows—25
Mair mirk the dungeon’s gloom26
And waur to thole, and fiercer still,27
The tyrants rage become.28
But yet they’re dear—to memory dear,29
O Loudon’s heights and howes ;30
And, oh ! they’re sweet—to the captive sweet,31
His dreams of Cowden knowes.32
For them I’ll brave the tyrant’s rage,33
As the oak the angry storm ;34
Nor like the craven’ willow stoop,35
Though my heart’s wi’ anguish torn.36
I yet would stem oppression’s tide,37
As the rocks the stormy sea ;38
But, oh, I long for your green hill side,39
For Freedom, love, and thee.40