Walter Chalmers Smith (1824–1908)

THERE is no fire of the crackling boughs

On the hearth of our fathers,

There is no lowing of brown-eyed cows

On the green meadows,

Nor do the maidens whisper vows

In the still gloaming,

Glenaradale.

There is no bleating of sheep on the hill

Where the mists linger,

There is no sound of the low hand-mill

Ground by the women,

And the smith’s hammer is lying still

By the brown anvil,

Glenaradale.

Ah! we must leave thee and go away

Far from Ben Luibh,

Far from the graves where we hoped to lay

Our bones with our fathers’,

Far from the kirk where we used to pray

Lowly together,

Glenaradale.

We are not going for hunger of wealth,

For the gold and silver,

We are not going to seek for health

On the flat prairies,

Nor yet for the lack of fruitful tilth

On thy green pastures,

Glenaradale.

Content with the croft and the hill were we,

As all our fathers,

Content with the fish in the lake to be

Carefully netted,

And garments spun of the wool from thee,

O black-faced wether

Of Glenaradale!

No father here but would give a son

For the old country,

And his mother the sword would have girded on

To fight her battles:

Many ’s the battle that has been won

By the brave tartans,

Glenaradale.

But the big-horn’d stag and his hinds, we know,

In the high corries,

And the salmon that swirls in the pool below

Where the stream rushes

Are more than the hearts of men, and so

We leave thy green valley,

Glenaradale.

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