Thy brooks are clear, but Scotia’s burns are bonnie,
Where once I paddled through the simmer day;
Thy birds recall the times, not few but monny,
I’ve heard the mavis chant her tuneful lay.
And though thy mountains rise in mystic glory,
They are not fairer to my spirit sight
Than Scotia’s grim old crags and peaks so hoary,
That brought my boyhood soul such dear delight.
Aye, Scotia’s lands to me are sweet and canny,
As in the days I roamed her meadows fine,