Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;
  Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
  Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
  Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
  My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
  My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
  Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe. 
  My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.

ROBERT BURNS.

* * * * *

HEATHER ALE:  A GALLOWAY LEGEND.

  From the bonny bells of heather
    They brewed a drink long-syne,
  Was sweeter far than honey,
    Was stronger far than wine. 
  They brewed it and they drank it,
    And lay in a blessed swound
  For days and days together
    In the dwellings underground.

  There rose a king in Scotland,
    A fell man to his foes,
  He smote the Picts in battle,
    He hunted them like roes. 
  Over miles of the red mountain
    He hunted as they fled,
  And strewed the dwarfish bodies
    Of the dying and the dead.

  Summer came in the country,
    Red was the heather bell;
  But the manner of the brewing
    Was none alive to tell. 
  In graves that were like children’s
    On many a mountain head,
  The Brewsters of the Heather
    Lay numbered with the dead.

  The king in the red moorland
    Rode on a summer’s day;
  And the bees hummed, and the curlews
    Cried beside the way. 
  The king rode, and was angry;
    Black was his brow and pale,
  To rule in a land of heather
    And lack the Heather Ale.

  It fortuned that his vassals,
    Riding free on the heath,
  Came on a stone that was fallen
    And vermin hid beneath. 
  Rudely plucked from their hiding,
    Never a word they spoke: 
  A son and his aged father—­
    Last of the dwarfish folk.

  The king sat high on his charger,
    He looked on the little men;
  And the dwarfish and swarthy couple
    Looked at the king again. 
  Down by the shore he had them;
    And there on the giddy brink—­
  “I will give you life, ye vermin,
    For the secret of the drink.”

  There stood the son and father
    And they looked high and low;
  The heather was red around them,
    The sea rumbled below. 
  And up and spoke the father,
    Shrill was his voice to hear;
  “I have a word in private,
    A word for the royal ear.

  “Life is dear to the aged,
    And honor a little thing;
  I would gladly sell the secret,”
    Quoth the Pict to the King. 
  His voice was small as a sparrow’s,
    And shrill and wonderful clear: 
  “I would gladly sell my secret,
    Only my son I fear.

  “For life is a little matter,
    And death is nought to the young;
  And I dare not sell my honor
    Under the eye of my son. 
  Take him, O king, and bind him,
    And cast him far in the deep;
  And it’s I will tell the secret. 
    That I have sworn to keep.”