Whene'er I hear the well-kent tune
My heart gangs ower the sea And communes with the loved o' yore
In the dear auld countrie.
Ance mair I run, wi' lichtsome step
And spirits fu' o' glee Ane o' a joyous, childish group
To school, in fair Dundee.

Ah! many a year has come and gane
Yet, time's long bridge atween I overstep, and live the past
As if it happed yestreen.

Though mony a hand is cauld in death,
And mony a grave grows green O' those that made the Yule-tide bricht
And hanselled Hallowe'en.

But, sometimes from the music creeps
A sicht that blurs the sang;— 'Twould discord sweetest tones e'er sung,
And put the minstrel wrang.

It is the picture o' a hame
O' Scotland's peasantry; In front stands Graeme of Claverhouse
The braw Viscount Dundee.
The troopers rein their panting steeds
Their General's will to bide; As, clinging to their mother's gown
The frightened bairnies hide.

I hear the haughty "Where is he?"
But—Oh, she answers well! Her faithful heart love fortified,
"That same I will na tell."

"Then, woman, thou shalt surely die
Who darest me to my face!" The husband heard these words of doom
And left his hiding place.

Alack, the courtly cavalier!
The bonnie, braw[Note] Dundee! What odium of saintly blood
Must ever cling to thee.

He stood his human target up,
He gave the order "Fire!" Yet, every gun was mute, for ance
His veterans braved his ire.

He raised aloft a coward hand
And shot his victim down;— But lang in Scotia's heart will live
The memory o' John Brown.

The widowed knelt upon the sward,
Her apron she unbound; And tenderly, her loved dead
In reddening shroud she wound;

"What think ye o' your husband now?"
The murderer demands Of the humble woman, in her woe
Clasped firm by bairnies' hands.

Oh, woe for Scotland when her king
Stept 'twixt her and her God! And baptized in her martyrs' gore
Each cave and moorland sod.

And woe to every servile hand
O' persecution's slaves! Who load their weakling souls wi' guilt
At beck o' deeper knaves.

Beyond a' creeds and rites o' rule;
True faith shall never fail; As lighthouse built on solid rock
'Twill weather every gale.

And though, unto the powers that be
A loyal lay she'll sing, Auld Scotland's soul will bend to nane
Save Heaven's own glorious King.