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

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

When Paganini Plays.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

The Criticism.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Wild Strawberries.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Living Freshness.

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 Blind Shepherd

The land is white, an' far awa'
    Abune ae bush an' tree
Nae fit is movin' i' the snaw
    On the hills I canna see;
For the sun may shine an' the darkness fa',
    But aye it's nicht to me.

I hear the whaup on windy days
    Cry up amang the peat
Whaur, on the road that speels the braes,
    I've heard my ain sheep's feet,
An' the bonnie lambs wi' their canny ways
    An' the silly yowes that bleat.

But noo wi' them I mauna' be,
    An' by the fire I bide,
To sit and listen patiently
    For a fit on the great hillside,
A fit that'll come to the door for me
    Doon through the pasture wide,

Maybe I'll hear the baa'in' flocks
    Ae nicht when time seems lang,
An' ken there's a step on the scattered rocks
    The f...

Violet Jacob

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

Heath from the Highlands

Here, where the great hills fall away
To bays of silver sea,
I hold within my hand to-day
A wild thing, strange to me.

Behind me is the deep green dell
Where lives familiar light;
The leaves and flowers I know so well
Are gleaming in my sight.

And yonder is the mountain glen,
Where sings in trees unstirred
By breath of breeze or axe of men
The shining satin-bird.

The old weird cry of plover comes
Across the marshy ways,
And here the hermit hornet hums,
And here the wild bee strays.

No novel life or light I see,
On hill, in dale beneath:
All things around are known to me
Except this bit of heath.

This touching growth hath made me dream
It sends my soul afar
To where the Scottish mountains gleam
Ag...

Henry Kendall

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

Thail Burn.

    The river is a ribbon wide,
    The falls a snowy feather,
    And stretching far on ilka side
    Are hills abloom wi' heather.
    The wind comes loitering frae the west
    By weight o' sweets retarded;
    The sea-mist hangs on Arran's crest,
    A Golden Fleece unguarded.

    We ken ye weel, ye fond young pair,
    That hand in hand do tarry;
    The youth is Burns, the Bard o' Ayr,
    The lass is Highland Mary.
    He tells her they will never pairt -
    'Tis life and luve taegither -
    The world has got the song by hairt
    He sang among the heather.

    'Twas lang ago, lang, lang ago,
    Yet all remember dearly
    The eyes, the hair, the brow o' snow
    O' her he luved sae dearly.
    And lads still woo their...

Jean Blewett

The Shepherd Lady.

I.

Who pipes upon the long green hill,
    Where meadow grass is deep?
The white lamb bleats but followeth on -
    Follow the clean white sheep.
The dear white lady in yon high tower,
    She hearkeneth in her sleep.

All in long grass the piper stands,
    Goodly and grave is he;
Outside the tower, at dawn of day,
    The notes of his pipe ring free.
A thought from his heart doth reach to hers:
    "Come down, O lady! to me."

She lifts her head, she dons her gown:
    Ah! the lady is fair;
She ties the girdle on her waist,
    And binds her flaxen hair,
And down she stealeth, down and down,
    Down the turret stair.

Behold him! With the flock he wons
    Along yon grassy lea.
"My shepherd lord, my shepherd lov...

Jean Ingelow