THEIR groves o sweet myrtle let Foreign Lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume;
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o green breckan,
Wi the burn stealing under the lang, yellow broom.
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowèrs
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk, lowly, unseen;
For there, lightly tripping, among the wild flowèrs,
A-listning the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
Tho rich is the breeze in their gay, sunny valleys,
And cauld Caledonias blast on the wave;
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
What are they?the haunt of the Tyrant and Slave.
The Slaves spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,
The brave Caledonian views wi disdain;
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save Loves willing fettersthe chains of his Jean.
