Ballad of Mine Own Country
Let them boast of Arabia, oppressed
By the odour of myrrh on the breeze;
In the isles of the East and the West
That are sweet with the cinnamon trees:
Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas,
Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete,
We are more than content, if you please,
With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best
With the scent of the limes, when the bees
Hummed low round the doves in their nest,
While the vintagers lay at their ease;
Had he sung in our Northern degrees,
He’d have sought a securer retreat,
He’d have dwelt, where the heart of us flees,
With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
O the broom has a chivalrous crest,
And the daffodil’s fair on the leas,
And the soul of the Southron might rest,
And be perfectly happy with these;
But we that were nursed on the knees
Of the hills of the North, we would fleet
Where our hearts might their longing appease
With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
ENVOY.
Ah! Constance, the land of our quest,
It is far from the sounds of the street,
Where the Kingdom of Galloway’s blest
With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!