Classic Poem

1

There's not a land the sea surrounds,
Sung by a thousand pens;
Or classic waters, classic grounds;
Like Scotland's bonny glens,
The valleys where the poet roams;
Each beacon lighted hill;
Her Scottish hearts, and Scottish homes;
Are green, and welcome still.

2

There's many maids in foreign vales,
That it were well to shun;
But Scottish maids, in Scottish tales, —
Beat all beneath the sun; —
My boyhood saw them by the streams,
By vale, and naked hill; —
And still they haunt my manhoods dreams, —
Sweet, green, and welcome still —