The Emigrant Laddie.

    Though long, long leagues of land and sea
    Stretch out between Braemar and me,
    I'll win home late or soon,
    Will take the old familiar way
    Past Isla Glen, up bold Glenshee,
    By sun-kissed hill and valley gray -
    These feet of mine will find their way
    At midnight or at noon.

    The hearth-fire, and the cot of stone
    Set 'mong the fir trees tall and lone,
    I'll see before my eyes;
    Hear rough winds kiss the heath-clad hill,
    The murmur gay of loch and rill,
    The mavis singing sweet and shrill,
    Hear, warm and soft as notes that thrill
    The souls in paradise.

    A voice all tremulous and glad
    Cries out: "A welcome home, my lad!"

Jean Blewett

Jean Blewett was a Canadian author, journalist, and poet. Born in Scotia, Ontario, she became well-known for her poetry and was awarded the part of lyrical poet at the World’s Fair in Chicago, 1893. Her notable works were often published in literary magazines. Besides poetry, Blewett also wrote stories and worked as a journalist, gaining considerable respect in both fields. She passed away in Chatham, Ontario, in 1934. Her legacy remains a significant part of Canadian literary history.

Jean Blewett

A Prayer Of Love.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

The Idler.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Earth To The Twentieth Century.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Spring.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Lad From Inverness.

He would go, they could not keep him, for he came of fighting stock;
Though his widowed mother pleaded, he was firm as any rock.
Well he loved the patient woman who had nursed him on her breast,
Been quite blind to all his follies, - but he loved his country best.
"I'll come home again," he told her; "I'll come home again some day,"
Laid his face to her's and kissed her, said good-bye and marched away.
Stronger than the voice that pleaded, "Laddie, laddie, bide at home,"
Was the shrill voice of the bugle and the deep voice of the drum,
Calling to him all the day, calling to him in his dreams:
"Come, lad! Come, lad! Come! Come! Come!"

His face was like a maiden's face, so smooth it was, and fair;
The laughter in his eyes of gray, the sunshine in his hair;
But a man's heart, ...

Jean Blewett

Lament Of The Scotch-Irish Exile

Oh, I want to win me hame
    To my ain countrie,
The land frae whence I came
    Far away across the sea;
Bit I canna find it there, on the atlas anywhere,
And I greet and wonder sair
    Where the deil it can be?

I hae never met a man,
    In a' the warld wide,
Who has trod my native lan'
    Or its distant shores espied;
But they tell me there's a place where my hypothetic race
Its dim origin can trace,
    Tipperary-on-the-Clyde.

But anither answers: "Nae,
    Ye are varra far frae richt;
Glasgow town in Dublin Bay
    Is the spot we saw the licht."
But I dinna find the maps bearing out these pawkie chaps,
And I sometimes think perhaps
    It has vanished out o' sight.

Oh, I fain wad win me hame
    To that u...

James Jeffrey Roche

Of A' The Airts The Wind Can Blaw

Tune - "Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey."


I.

    Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
        I dearly like the west,
    For there the bonnie lassie lives,
        The lassie I lo'e best:
    There wild-woods grow, and rivers row,
        And mony a hill between;
    But day and night my fancy's flight
        Is ever wi' my Jean.

II.

    I see her in the dewy flowers,
        I see her sweet and fair:
    I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
        I hear her charm the air:
    There's not a bonnie flower that springs
        By fountain, shaw, or green,
    There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
        But minds me o' my Jean.

III.

    O blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft
        Among the...

Robert Burns

Song For A Highland Drover Returning From England.

Now fare-thee-well, England; no further I'll roam;
But follow my shadow that points the way home;
Your gay southern Shores shall not tempt me to stay;
For my Maggy's at Home, and my Children at play!
Tis this makes my Bonnet set light on my brow,
Gives my sinews their strength and my bosom its glow.

Farewell, Mountaineers! my companions, adieu;
Soon, many long miles when I'm severed from you,
I shall miss your white Horns on the brink of the Bourne,
And o'er the rough Heaths, where you'll never return:
But in brave English pastures you cannot complain,
While your Drover speeds back to his Maggy again.

O Tweed! gentle Tweed, as I pass your green vales,
More than life, more than Love, my tir'd Spirit inhales;
There Scotland, my darling, lies full in my view,

Robert Bloomfield

The Highland Shepherd.

    O the hills of purple heather,
    And the skies so warm and gray!
    O the shimmer of the sea-mist
    In the sea-wind far away!
    O the calling of the torrent,
    Sweeping down Ben Vorlich's side,
    And my white flocks faring foldward
    In the hush of eventide!

Jean Blewett

Written In The Highlands Of Scotland, September 1, 1812.

Blue was the loch, [1] the clouds were gone,
Ben-Lomond in his glory shone,
When, Luss, I left thee; when the breeze
Bore me from thy silver sands,
Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees,
Where, grey with age, the dial stands;
That dial so well-known to me!
--Tho' many a shadow it had shed,
Beloved Sister, since with thee
The legend on the stone was read.
    The fairy-isles fled far away;
That with its woods and uplands green,
Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen,
And songs are heard at close of day;
That too, the deer's wild covert, fled,
And that, the Asylum of the Dead:
While, as the boat went merrily,
Much of ROB ROY [2] the boat-man told;
His arm that fell below his knee,
His cattle-ford and mountain-hold.
    Tarbet, [3] thy shore I climb'...

Samuel Rogers