Janet Hamilton Poems

There stude a wee house on a lanely muirside,
Whaur mony lang years a puir widow did bide-
A decent, douce bodie, ne'er kenn'd to complain,
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Arouse ye! arouse ye! the foe is at large,
Again and again we must come to the charge.
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'The Isles of Greece! the Isles of Greece!'
In blood and bondage. Ah, to know,
To find the land, the hand, the brand ...
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Queen of hundred ocean Isles,
Rich in scenic grandeurs;
Land of forest, hill, and glen,
Where the tourist wanders.
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The Haunted House in days of yore
Stood lone, deserted, ruined, hoar,
With dusty panes, and moss-grown sill,
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Dark gulf of death! black cavern of despair!
From your foul depths, to breathe the upper air,
No victim comes-one common living grave
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O God of the Seasons! we bring
To Thee our thankoff'rings of praise;
We soar with the lark; as we sing,
The skies shall re-echo our lays,
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In a vineyard where grape-laden boughs
To the trellised wall heavily cling,
Where the voice of the turtle is heard,
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Servant of God! thy soul's pure spring of life
Disturb, defile not, with unholy strife;
Gentle to all, as it becomes thee well;
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Wake every chord, strike every string,
Diffuse harmonious raptures round;
Ye foreign songsters warbling breathe
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