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For the banner that waves is a banner of peace,
each banner of discord and strife,
M Y M 0 T H B R.
Who fed me from her gentle breast,
My Mother. Who ran to help me when I fell, And would some pretty story tell, Or kiss the part to make it well ?
My Mother. Who taught my infant lips to pray, To love God's holy word and day, And walk in wisdom's pleasant way?
My Mother. And can I ever cease to be, Affectionate and kind to thee, Who wast so very kind to me,
"Deir an t-aosda, 'S e 'g éiridh le faoilt air a ghruaidh,
Cò thog mi air a cìochaibh tlà,
Mo Mhàthair ?
Oh no! the thought I cannot bear ;
As if they had been composed by Alexander Selkirk, during his
solitary abode on the island of Juan Fernandez.
My right there is none to dispute ;
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
sages have seen in thy face?
Than reign in this horrible place.
I must finish my journey alone,
I start at the sound of my own.
My form with indifference see ;
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Divinely bestow'd upon man,
Cha 'n fheud-b'e sin a bhi gun truas;
RANNAN Mar gu'n rachadh an deanamh le Alasdair Selcirc, an uair a bha
e 'na aonaran air eilein Iuan Fernandes,
Cha 'n 'eil aon ann'chur suarach mo reachd ;
Tha gach eun agus fia’-bhea'ch fo m' smachd.
Chaidh a luaidh ort cho tric ann an dàn ?
Na bhi 'm righ an àit' oillteil mar tha.
’A’m ònar thig crìoch air mo réis,
Thig clisg orm le fuaim mo ghuth féin.
'Gam fhaicinn gun ioghnadh gun sgàth ;
Tha oillt orm am faicinn cho càld'.
Chaidh a bhuileach' air daoinibh o'n àird,
My sorrows then I might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. Religion! What treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word ! More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell
These vallies and rocks never heard, Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when a Sabbath appear’d. Ye winds, that have made mo your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Of a land I shall visit no more.
A wish or a thought after me?
Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is a glance of the mind !
Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there ; But, alas ! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down to his lair ; Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.