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...THE SACHEM OF THE CLOUDS (A THANKSGIVING LEGEND) by ROBERT FROST HOW THEY GO ON by JAMES GALVIN OLD MEN ON THE COURTHOUSE LAWN, MURRAY, KENTUCKY by JAMES GALVIN RETROSPECT by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON IRELAND; WRITTEN FOR THE ART AUTOGRAPH DURING IRISH FAMINE by SIDNEY LANIER |