THE J OURNEY

I

In the good ship Edward Thorn
O'er the billows we were borne.
A motley company were we,
Sailing o'er that dreary sea.
Many from their homes had fled,
For they had denied them bread;
Some from sorrow and distress,
Others from mere restlessness;
Some because they long'd to see
The promis'd land of liberty;
Some because their hopes were high,
Others for — they knew not why.

II

There was doubting John, the teacher,
Spouting Tom, nicknamed " the preacher, "
Gen'ral John, the mechanician,
Lean, lank Tom, the politician,
Lazy Bill, the bad news bringer,
Little Mac, the jocund singer;
And there was Aleck, the divine,
As bristly as the porcupine;
And there was fighting Bill from Kent,
Who always was on mischief bent;
With wives and children, three or four,
With youths and maidens, half a score;
And lastly, tall orator John,
Always thoughtful and alone —
A motley crew as ever went
To form a backwoods settlement.

III

When the winds were all asleep,
Hush'd their wild and restless sweep,
Not a breath the sails to fill,
And the vessel lay as still
On the bosom of the deep
" As a sea-god fast asleep; "
Some would stroll around the deck,
Telling tales of storm and wreck;
Others, through the smile and tear,
Mourn'd the land they lov'd so dear,
Told that tale of dire distress,
Hungry, hopeless wretchedness,
Made them ocean's dangers brave,
Seeking homes beyond the wave.
Then a-singing Tom would start,
As he said, to ease his heart;
In a rude and boist'rous vein
He would thunder out this strain:

IV

Old England is Eaten by Knaves

Old England is eaten by knaves,
Yet her heart is all right at the core;
May she ne'er be the mother of slaves,
May no foreign foe land on her shore.

I love my own country and race,
Nor lightly I fled from them both;
Yet who would remain in a place
With too many spoons for the broth?

The Squire is preserving his game —
He says that God gave it to him —
And he'll banish the poor, without shame,
For touching a feather or limb.

The Justice, he feels very big,
And boasts what the law can secure;
With two different laws in " his wig, "
Which he keeps for the rich and the poor.

The Bishop he preaches and prays,
And talks of a heavenly birth;
But somehow, for all that he says,
He grabs a good share of the earth.

Old England is eaten by knaves,
Yet her heart is all right at the core;
May she ne'er be the mother of slaves,
May no foreign foe land on her shore.

V

Then little Mac would sing the lays
Of Scotia's bonnie woods and braes:
Of hoary hill, of dashing stream,
Of lonely rock where eagles scream,
Of primrose bank, and gowany glen,
Of broomy knowe, and hawthorn den,
Of burnside where the linnet's lay
Is heard the lee lang summer's day —
The scenes which many a simple song
Still peoples with an airy throng.
And still I hear them tell their tale
In ev'ry strath and stream and vale,
In swells of love, in gusts of woe,
Which thrill'd our hearts so long ago.
As mournful groups around him hung
The sigh from many a breast was wrung,
For eyes grew dim, and hearts did swell,
While thus he sang his last farewell:

Farewell, Caledonia!

Farewell, Caledonia, my country, farewell!
Adieu ev'ry scarr'd cliff and lone rocky fell.
Your dark peaks are fading away from my view —
I ne'er thought I lov'd you so dearly till noo;
For fortune hath chased me across the wild main,
And the blue hills of Scotland I'll ne'er see again.

Farewell, lovely Leven! dear vale of my heart,
'Twas hard frae the hame o' my childhood to part:
Our lowly thatch'd cottage, which stands by the mill,
The green where we gambol'd, the church on the hill.
I lov'd you, sweet valley, in sunshine and rain;
But oh! I shall never behold you again.

How bright were my mornings, my evenings how calm!
I rose wi' the lav'rock, lay down wi' the lamb;
Was blithe as the lintie that sings on the tree,
And licht as the goudspink that lilts on the lea;
But tears, sighs, and sorrows are foolish and vain,
For the light heart of childhood returns not again.

Oh, sad was the morning when I cam' awa',
And big were the tears frae my e'en that did fa'!
My mother was weepin', my father was wae,
And " Farewell, my laddie, " was all they could say;
While the tears o'er their haffets were fa'in' like rain,
For they thocht that they never would see me again.

Awa' frae our cottage I tried then to steal,
But frien's gather'd round me to bid me fareweel;
E'en Towser cam' forth wi a sorrowful whine,
And the auld women said 'twas an ominous sign;
It spak' o' disaster, o' sorrow and pain,
That the blue hills o' Scotland I'd ne'er see again.
And then when I tarried, and mournfully took
Of all the lov'd scenes my last sorrowful look,
The hills gather'd round me, as if to embrace,
And the bonnie wee gowans look'd up in my face,
While the birds 'mang the branches in sorrowful strain
Sang " Oh, no! ye will never see Scotland again. "