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The Enduring Land

by Alan Dickson

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1.
The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill; How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear! As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year. The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, And all the gay foppery of summer is flown: Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pursues! How long I have liv'd-but how much liv'd in vain, How little of life's scanty span may remain, What aspects old Time in his progress has worn, What ties cruel Fate, in my bosom has torn. How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd! And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd! Life is not worth having with all it can give- For something beyond it poor man sure must live.
2.
We Are Lowly 05:40
We are lowly – very lowly, Misfortune is our crime; We have been trodden under foot From all recorded time. A yoke upon our necks is laid, A burden to endure; To suffer is our legacy, The portion of the poor! We are lowly – very lowly, And scorned from day to day; Yet we have something of our own Power cannot take away. By tyrants we are toiled to death – By cold and hunger killed; But peace is in our hearts, it speaks Of duties all fulfilled! We are lowly – very lowly, Nor house nor land have we; But there’s a heritage for us While we have eyes to see. They cannot hide the lovely stars, Word’s in creation’s book, Although they hold their fields and lanes Corrupted by our look! We are lowly – very lowly, And yet the fairest flowers That by the wayside raise their eyes, - Thank God, they still are ours! Ours is the streamlets mellow voice, And ours the common dew; We still dare gaze on hill and plain, And field and meadow too! We are lowly – very lowly, But when the cheerful spring Come forth with flowers upon his feet To hear the throstle sing, Although we dare not seek the shade Where haunt the forest deer – The waving leaves we still can see, The hymning birds can hear! We are lowly – very lowly, Our hedgerow paths are gone Where woodbines laid their fairy hands The hawthorn’s breast upon, Yet slender mercies still are left, - And heaven doth endure, And hears the prayers that upward rise From the afflicted poor!
3.
Endurance 03:21
If you have borne the bitter taunts Which proud, poor men must bear; If you have felt the upstart’s sneer Your heart like iron sear; If you have heard yourself belied, Nor answer’d word nor blow; You have endured as I have done – And poverty you know! If you have heard old mammon’s laugh, And burns of wealth the frown; If you have felt your very soul Destroyed and casten down, - And been compelled to bear it all For sake of daily bread – Than have you suffered what is laid Upon the poor man’s head! If you have seen your children starved, And wished to bow and die – Crushed by a load of bitterness, Scorn, and contumely; If misery has knaw’d your soul Until its food grew pain – Then you have shed the bloody tears That cheeks of poor men stain! There is a book, - and hypocrites Say they believe it true, - Which tells us men are equal all! Do they believe and do? No, vampire! Christ they crucify In men of low degree; Could souls decay – the poor man’s soul A mortal thing would be:
4.
When the voice of the exiles, whose memory we cherish, A tear from the fount of our sympathy draws, The beloved of our hearts, are they destined to perish! The best and the boldest in liberty’s cause. No, perish the powers that hath doom’d them to languish, Whose souls were too pure for the torture to bend! Nor shall our ingratitude add to their anguish, But prove to the world we will still be their friend, Despite the resolves of the despots who rule us, Their lives to embitter, their exile prolong, The millions shall teach them, the heartless, the soulless, To whom doth the title of freedom belong. They remind me of death, of the torture, the scaffold, The rack and the gibbet, the dungeon, the cave. But away with such threats, their attempts shall be baffled, No fears can exist in hearts of the brave. Our voice shall be heard till our prayers are complied with. We’ll pester the powers till the mandate goes forth That shall loosen their chains, that shall ease all their pains, And restore them once more to the land of their birth. Each breeze that is passing shall waft them our blessing, And tell them of happier days yet to come. No power shall withhold them, our arms shall enfold them, Our welcome shall cheer, and our hearts be their home.
5.
6.
Farewell to the woods and the hills o Strathspey, To the black woods o Tulloch farewell for aye; To Nithy's sweet murmur I'll listen no more, Nor scour the dark forests of gloomy Glenmore. Farewell to the grouse, to the roe and the deer, They'll now roam at pleasure, McAllum's not near; In hunting them down I had my own share, No keepers who knew me approach me would dare. Until daring bluecoats my house did assail, To frighten them off no words would avail, In an unguarded moment brave King I shot dead, I was always a lover of powder and lead. Black, black was the day I first handled the gun, The powers of hell had already begun, The scenes of my youth I will ne'er see again, The prayers of my parents were uttered in vain. Black, black was the day they first handed me o'er, To be chained like a dog and remembered no more, My curse on the lairds, their game laws and all, They accomplished my ruin and hastened my fall. All poachers take a warning, be guided by me, Lay aside your guns while you're able and free, To enjoy life's blessing and work for your bread, Of McAllum think sadly long after he's dead.
7.
Those straths and glens, with waving ferns, where sheep and lambs now stray, Could muster at the pibroch sound, to forage or to fray, Five thousand of the bravest men, e'er stood in rank and file, To do the bidding of their chief, or die for old Argyll. Alas ! where are those heroes now, uprooted from the soil ! Some driven off to other lands, some to our towns to toil. Now, should the " Fiery Cross " go round, by vale or mountain steep, Those straths and glens might well resound " Put red coats on your sheep." Great God on high, whose mighty eye looks down on all below, Whose ear is open to the cry, the patriot's cry of woe, Why should Thine own eternal laws, who did creation plan, And formed us like Thy very self, man like his fellow-man, Be broken by a selfish few, who claim the lion's share, And drive poor mortals from the soil, while there is room to spare ; Ho ! spirits of the mighty dead breathe down upon your bones, Till ghastly hosts, with martial tread, shake parliaments and thrones. Arise, ye sons of noble sires awake, shake off your slumber, Blow Freedom's spark until it fires, and rolls in awful thunder From end to end of Britain's Isle, from platform and from press, Till Lords and Commons grant just laws, and cruel wrongs redress.
8.
Farewell to the cot ‘mong the whins and the bracken, The sand in the bay, and the rocks on the shore, To deep-sounding Staffa, and beauteous Kyleaken, - I leave thee, perchance to return nevermore. The birds sing as sweet by thy clear springing fountains, The sun shines as bright on the hills and the sea, But o’er thy deep valleys and high, swelling mountains The soft winds of freedom no longer blow free. Green straths to the sheep have been given without measure, And glens to the deer, for the stranger to kill, And all for a proud chieftain’s profit or pleasure, Thy clans are dispersed like the mist on the hill. Where once were the hamlet, the shielings, the gardens, And rustic contentment and industry dwell, Cold hearths, ruined walls, and green mounds are the wardens That mark the lost home of the poor vanished Celt. But who can forget as he treads the red heather, And hears the lost voices that rise on the breeze, The men who have gone in their hundreds together To crowd the dark cities, or cross the wide seas. I’d rather for life be a poor humble toiler, With conscience from outrage and cruelty clear, Than of lonely hearths be a careless despoiler, To make them the home of the sheep and the deer. The nation that sleeps while her children are banished, Who stood like a guard round her wave-beaten shore, Will some day awake with a cry to the vanished, A cry for the feet that return nevermore, My breast heaves with sighs as I leave thee for ever, To think that man’s pleasure should work such deep woe; Forget thy dear mountains? Ah, no, I shall never Forget thee till Highland blood ceases to flow.

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This is the third album in the 'Strains of Eden' album series which brings to light rare and never heard songs from 18th and 19th-century Scotland that have some connection with the land and the story of democracy.

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released July 17, 2016

Support from the Alistair Hulett Memorial Trust in helping to fund this EP is gratefully appreciated.
© ℗ Rowth Records 2016
© Rowth Publishing 2016

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Alan Dickson Glasgow, UK

Scottish singer songwriter Alan Dickson was born in Leith but now based in Glasgow. Alan writes about life in Scotland and beyond, mainly of a personal and political nature.

Descended from a Leith docker, he remarks: "as life mimics art I'm just like my grandfather, only he used a rivet gun and I use a guitar."

Among his influences are Robert Burns, Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan and Dick Gaughan.
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