| "Last Sunday in England" |
| The emigrants kneel in the old parish church for the last time...it may be forever. They scarcely had known it would be so hard, the ties of a liftetime to sever. For the last time they look on the ivy-clad walls, for the last time they hear the bells ringing. 'Twas there they were married, and now to that church, how fondly their sad hearts are clinging! They listen once more to the good Rector's voice, they will try to remember his teaching; And hope they may never forget what he says, as they look in his face while he's preaching. That voice they have heard by the bed of the sick - that face they have seen by the dying - At the altar, the font and the newly dug grave, the measures of faith he's supplying. For the last time, they stand where their forefathers' names are writ on the headstones and crosses; There are newly cut names and others so old, they are covered by lichens and mosses. Then, a last look they take at a green little mound, where one of their children is sleeping, And gather a daisy that grows at the head...then turn away silently weeping. The neighbours are waiting to bid them Godspeed, to remember them each one professing. At the gate of the churchyard the old Rector stands to give them his fatherly blessing. He placed in their hands the best of all gifts, a Bible and Prayer Book, at parting; They couldn't say much, but he knew what they felt, from their eyes the soft teardrops were starting. "Keep these in your heart," he said, as he gave them, "And trust to God above only, Then the Lord will be with you wherever you go, so that you need never feel lonely." -- Author Unknown |
| I have ancestors from Scotland, England, Ireland, Wales and Switzerland, but, for some reason, the poem below, "Last Sunday in England," always puts me in mind of my Scottish McCormicks and Carmichaels. They left the Isle of Lismore, Scotland, in the 1700's to come to America. The island is so beautiful, I often think of how difficult it must've been to leave it. Pictured above: Church of St. Moluag, Lismore, dating back to the 14th century. |
| The Scottish Emigrant's Farewell Fareweel, fareweel, my native hame, thy lanely glens and heath clad mountains, Fareweel thy fields o' storied fame, thy leafy shaws and sparkling fountains. Nae mair I'll climb the Pentlands steep, nor wander by the Esk's clear river, I seek a hame far o'er the deep; my native land, fareweel, forever. Thou land wi' love an' freedom crown'd, in ilk wee cot and lordly dwelling, May many hearted youth be found, and maids in ev'ry grace excelling; The land where Bruce and Wallace wight, for freedom fought in days o' danger, Ne'er bow'd to proud usurpin' might, but foremost stood, wrongs' stern avenger. Tho' far frae thee, my native shore, an' toss'd on life's tempestuous ocean, My heart, aye Scottish to the core, shall cling to thee wi warm devotion. An' while the waving heather grows, an' onward flows the winding river, The toast be "Scotland's broomy knowes, her mountains, fields and glens forever!" -- Author Unknown |
| The Hebrides From the lone shieling on the misty island, Mountains divide us and a breadth of seas; Yet still the blood is strong, The heart is Highland, And we, in dreams, behold the Hebrides. -- Author Unknown |
| The three photos directly above were taken on the Isle of Lismore. |
| Photos on this page are courtesy of Kepguru. Friday's Journal Whispers - Home Old New Orleans |