320 SWINBURNE
But the land we tread that are not dead Is strange as night by day.
Strange as night in a strange man's sight,
Though fair as dawn it be : For what is here that a stranger's cheer
Should yet wax blithe to see?
The hills stand steep, the dells lie deep,
The fields are green and gold : The hill-streams sing, and the hill-sides ring,
As ours at home of old.
But hills and flowers are nane of ours,
And ours are over sea : And the kind strange land whereon we stand,
It wotsna what were we Or ever we came, wi' scathe and shame,
To try what end might be.
Scathe and shame, and a waefu' name,
And a weary time and strange, Have they that seeing a weird for dreeing
Can die, and cannot change.
Shame and scorn may we thole that mourn,
Though sair be they to dree : But ill may we bide the thoughts we hide,
Mair keen than wind and sea.
Ill may we thole the night's watches,
And ill the weary day : And the dreams that keep the gates of sleep,
A waefu' gift gie they; For the songs they sing us, the sights they bring us,
The morn blaws all away.
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