Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, I pity much his case, Unless he comes to wait upon The Lord their God, His Grace. There's naething here but Highland pride, And Highland scab and hunger: If Providence has sent me here, 'Twas surely in his anger. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VANQUISHED; ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL GRANT by FRANCIS FISHER BROWNE A SNOW-STORM; SCENE IN A VERMONT WINTER by CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN AN ANCIENT PROPHECY by PHILIP FRENEAU AS I SIT WRITING HERE by WALT WHITMAN ECHOES OF SPRING: 8 by MATHILDE BLIND THE ENDLESS BATTLE by BERTON BRALEY THE WANDERER: 3. IN ENGLAND: 'CARPE DIEM' by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |