I don't know if I ever posted this on the internet. My brother, Roger, and I discovered a version of it in "The Best Loved Poems of the American People," but its title is "The Canadian Boat Song." When, years later, we came upon "Atlas Shrugged," we were intrigued that this poem is attributed to a Scotsman, John Galt, Lord North, who supposedly wrote the first novel related to the Industrial Revolution. Also intriguing is that the story of the poem is men exiled for the rightful land of their fathers, where a tyrant now rules. As Canadians, I wonder if Nathaniel or Barbara introduced Ayn Rand to this poem. Or maybe it's all a coincidence. I shorten the poem here to get closer to the version Roger and I encountered. I love the chorus: Fair these broad meads, these hoard woods are grand/ But we are exiles from our father's land..."

Also: "When the bold kindred, in the time long-vanished,
Conquered the soil and fortified the keep, —
No seer foretold the children would be banished,
That a degenerate Lord might boast his sheep..."

So here it is, with a link at the end about John Galt, Lord North:

Listen to me, as when ye heard our father
Sing long ago, the song of other shores —
Listen to me, and then in chorus gather
All your deep voices, as ye pull your oars:

Fair these broad meads — these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.

From the lone shieling of the misty island
Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas —
Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland,
And we in dreams behold the Hebrides:
Fair these broad meads — these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.

We ne'er shall tread the fancy-haunted valley,
Where 'tween the dark hills creeps the small clear stream,
In arms around the patriarch banner rally,
Nor see the moon on royal tombstones gleam:
Fair these broad meads — these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.

When the bold kindred, in the time long-vanish'd,
Conquer'd the soil and fortified the keep, —
No seer foretold the children would be banish'd,
That a degenerate Lord might boast his sheep:
Fair these broad meads — these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.

Come foreign rage — let Discord burst in slaughter!
O then for clansman true, and stern claymore —
The hearts that would have given their blood like water,
Beat heavily beyond the Atlantic roar:
Fair these broad meads — these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.

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