GANE WERE BUT THE WINTER CAULD.
Gane were but the winter cauld,
And gane were but the snaw,
I could sleep in the wild woods,
Where primroses blaw.
Cauld 's the snaw at my head,
And cauld at my feet,
And the finger o' death 's at my een,
Closing them to sleep.
Let nane tell my father,
Or my mither dear:
I 'll meet them baith in heaven,
At the spring o' the year.
IT 'S HAME, AND IT 'S HAME.
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,
The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie;
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The green leaf o' loyalty 's beginning for to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a':
But I 'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
There 's naught now frae ruin my country to save,
But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
And it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!