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Algernon Charles Swinburne - A Jacobite`s Exile
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  The weary day runs down and dies,
    The weary night wears through:
  And never an hour is fair wi` flower,
    And never a flower wi` dew.

  I would the day were night for me,
    I would the night were day:
  For then would I stand in my ain fair land,
    As now in dreams I may.

  O lordly flow the Loire and Seine,
    And loud the dark Durance:
  But bonnier shine the braes of Tyne
    Than a` the fields of France;
  And the waves of Till that speak sae still
    Gleam goodlier where they glance.

  O weel were they that fell fighting
    On dark Drumossie`s day:
  They keep their hame ayont the faem
    And we die far away.

  O sound they sleep, and saft, and deep,
    But night and day wake we;
  And ever between the sea banks green
    Sounds loud the sundering sea.

  And ill we sleep, sae sair we weep
    But sweet and fast sleep they:
  And the mool that haps them roun` and laps them
    Is e`en their country`s clay;
  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.

  On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw,
    The burn rins blithe and fain:
  There`s nought wi` me I wadna gie
    To look thereon again.

  On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide:
    There sounds nae hunting-horn
  That rings sae sweet as the winds that beat
    Round banks where Tyne is born.

  The Wansbeck sings with all her springs
    The bents and braes give ear;
  But the wood that rings wi` the sang she sings
    I may not see nor hear;
  For far and far thae blithe burns are,
    And strange is a` thing near.

  The light there lightens, the day there brightens,
    The loud wind there lives free:
  Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by me
    That I wad hear or see.

  But O gin I were there again,
    Afar ayont the faem,
  Cauld and dead in the sweet saft bed
    That haps my sires at hame!

  We`ll see nae mair the sea-banks fair,
    And the sweet grey gleaming sky,
  And the lordly strand of Northumberland,
    And the goodly towers thereby;
  And none shall know but the winds that blow
    The graves wherein we lie.
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