The crimson sun is sinking,
And the Highland hills are blue,
And the silver lake is sleeping
At the back of Ben-venue.
And weary miles between us,
And dreary leagues there be,
But my heart flies back untravelled
Dear mother mine, to thee.
I mind the time, dear mother,
When 'twas happiness alone
To sit and listen ever
To thy kind and gentle tone.
I think of days forgotten,
As my fancies older grew,
How I had wayward changes,
And thy love no changing knew.
And failings unremembered,
And faults all unredeemed,
Come thicker with my thinking,
And darker than they seemed.
How all thy fond affection
Seemed a thing of certain course;
A love that asked no love again,
Mine by some hidden force.
So that I wandered careless
Far from thy loving breast,
And sought for other bosoms,
Where my spirit's wing should rest.
And those I would have chosen
Looked for higher love than mine;
So I turned me-disenchanted,
Back to that breast of thine.
I think how still thou lov'dst me,
How thy lip my brow hath kissed,
And my cheek, for all I hide it,
Is wet-and not with mist.
By the holy purple sunset,
And by God's own golden sun,
I sit alone-and wonder
For the little I have done.
But that love-and lie I cannot
Here in this quiet spot,
Hath undeserved been often,
But never once forgot:
So I kneel to thee in spirit,
For thy blessing, mother true,
Where the silver lake is sleeping
At the back of Ben Venue.