The halcyon days at length draw to a close, and sorrows "in
battalions" compel them to emigrate and bid

Farewell to the scenes they ne'er shall visit more.

The remainder is rather abrupt, at least much more so than the lovers
of fervid poetry could wish, especially as the termination is with the
following exquisite ballad:--

Our native land, our native vale,
A long and last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Lynden-dale,
And Cheviot mountains blue.

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
And streams renowned in song:
Farewell, ye blithsome braes and meads
Our hearts have loved so long.

Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes,
Where thyme and harebells grow;
Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes,
O'erhung with birk and sloe.

The battle-mound, the border-tower,
That Scotia's annals tell:
Thy martyr's grave, the lover's bower--
To each--to all--farewell!

Home of our hearts! our father's home!