Classic Poem

This land is rich — baith tree an' bower,
An' hill an' plain, are cover'd o'er
Wi' flowers o' monie, monie dyes,
Till maist it seems a paradise,
Where love an' beauty make their hame
Beside ilk flowin' silver stream: —
I ken the land is heavenlie:
But O! it's no my ain countrie!

Thae hills are green: — nae heather there
Waves in the caller mornin' air; —
Fu' pleasantly thae streamlets rin;
But O! they want the cheerfu' din
O'. hame's sweet burns, that ever sung
To me my ain, my mountain tongue; —
I ken the land is fair to see!
But O! it's no my ain countrie!

The bonnet doesna hap the brow —
The plaidie wraps no bosoms true —
The harp's sweet tones 'mang echoes stray
Where I would like the pipes to play —
The nightingale sings a' night lang
Where I would like the throstle's sang: —
The land is fair as fair can be —
But O! it's no my ain countrie!

When mirth's warm voice is laughin' hie
The groan o' care doth danton me —
I canna rest, I canna smile,
Awa' frae yonder rocky isle:
An exile's wafu' fate is mine,
Wha for his hame doth ever pine: —
My heart is sick, an' I will dee
If I win nae to my ain countrie!