Classic Poem

It lies as of yore whar the URIE rins,
The dearest place I can name;
And there, to my heart, is the sicht that blin's —
The beild that to me is hame.

It's gables look back on the infant years —
A lifetime fades at the door —
I hear, but the voices that wake in my ears
Are alas, and alas, no more.

I 've been whar the sun burns up the land,
And north whar the ice never thaws,
But never the sicht o' a foreign strand
Moved my heart like thae four wa's.

It 's hame, ever hame, at even' we seek,
Tho' the whole world wide we hae seen;
For the kindest smell is the auld peat reek
O' the place that the heart keeps green.