My Foot Is On My Native Heath,

Then Hush Thee, My Darling, Take Rest While You May, For Strife Comes With Manhood, And Waking With Day.

War Is The Only Game In Which Both Sides Lose.

Never Was Flattery Lost On A Poet's Ear; A Simple Race, They Waste Their Toil For The Vain Tribute Of A Smile.

The Lover's Pleasure, Like That Of The Hunter, Is In The Chase, And The Brightest Beauty Loses Half Its Merit, As The Flower Its Perfume, When The Willing Hand Can Reach It Too Easily. There Must Be Doubt; There Must Be Difficulty And Danger.

O Caledonia! Stern And Wild, Meet Nurse For A Poetic Child! Land Of Brown Heath And Shaggy Wood; Land Of The Mountain And The Flood!