To S. R. Crockett
Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying, Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying, My heart remembers how! Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, Standing Stones on the vacant wine-red moor, Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races, And winds, austere and pure! Be it granted me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home! and to hear again the call; Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying; And hear no more at all.
It is sadly ironic that one of the writers who wrote best about Scotland and the Scottish character was not able to live in the country, and died far from his native land, a novel imbued with the essence of Scotland under his pen on the day he died.
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