Part 7 — ALLAN CUNNINGHAM

THE sun rises bright in France, And fair sets he; But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countree. O, it’s nae my ain ruin That saddens aye my e’e, But the dear Marie I left behin’ Wi’ sweet bairnies three.

MY lanely hearth burn’d bonnie, And smiled my ain Marie; I’ve left a’ my heart behin’ In my ain countree. The bud comes back to summer, And the blossom to the bee; But I’ll win back, O never, To my ain countree. O, I am leal to high Heaven, Where soon I hope to be, An’ there I’ll meet ye a’ soon Frae my ain countree!

HAME, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be— O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree! When the flower is i’ the bud and the leaf is on the tree, The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countree; Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be— O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree! The green leaf o’ loyaltie’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 graw in my ain countree. O, there’s nocht now frae ruin my country can save, But the keys o’ kind heaven, to open the grave; That a’ the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie May rise again an’ fight for their ain countree. The great now are gane, a’ wha ventured to save, The new grass is springing on the tap o’ their grave; But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my e’e, ‘I’ll shine on ye yet in your ain countree.’ Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be— O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

GONE were but the winter cold, And gone were but the snow, I could sleep in the wild woods Where primroses blow. Cold’s the snow at my head, And cold at my feet; And the finger of death’s at my e’en, Closing them to sleep. Let none tell my father Or my mother so dear,— I’ll meet them both in heaven At the spring of the year.