On A Spray Of Heather

Far from its native moorland Or crest of “wine-red” hill, At sight or scent of heather The hearts of Scotsmen thrill. Though crushed its purple blossoms, Its tender stems turned brown, It brings romantic Highlands Into prosaic town. The clans are on the border, The chiefs are in the fray; We’re keen upon their footsteps With Walter Scott to-day. Peat smoke from lowland cottage Floats curling up, and turns Our dreams toward quiet hearthstones And melodies of Burns. And last our fancy lingers With fond regret and vain Where sleeps our Tusitala Beneath the tropic rain-- Far from the purple heather Or gleaming rowan bough, Alone on mountain summit, “Our hearts remember how.”

St. Andrew’s Day.