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!”