Home of our love—our fathers' home—
Land of the brave and free—
The sail is flapping on the foam
That bears us far from thee!
We seek a wild and distant shore,
Beyond the western main;
We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again!
Our native land—our native vale—
A long, a last adieu!
Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,
And Scotland's mountains blue!
THE EXILE'S LAMENT.
By the lone Mankayana's margin gray
A Scottish maiden sung;
And mournfully pour'd her melting lay
In Teviot's border-tongue:
O bonnie grows the broom on Blaiklaw knowes,
And the birk in Clifton dale;
And green are the hills o' the milk-white ewes,
By the briery banks o' Cayle!
Here bright are the skies; and these valleys of bloom
May enchant the traveller's eye;
But all seems dress'd in death-like gloom,
To the exile who comes to die!
O bonnie grows the broom, &c.
Far round and round spreads the howling waste,
Where the wild beast roams at will;
And yawning cleughs, by woods embraced,
Where the savage lurks to kill!
O bonnie grows the broom, &c.
Full oft over Cheviot's uplands green
My dreaming fancy strays;
But I wake to weep 'mid the desolate scene
That scowls on my aching gaze!
O bonnie grows the broom, &c.
Oh light, light is poverty's lowliest state,
On Scotland's peaceful strand,
Compared with the heart-sick exile's fate,
In this wild and weary land!
O bonnie grows the broom, &c.