CXXXI
MY HEARTS IN THE HIGHLANDS My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer,
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe—
My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go!
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth!
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
Farewell to the mountains high cover’d with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below,
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods!
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer,
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe—
My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go!
Robert Burns. CXXXII
BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed
Or to victorie!
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour:
See the front o’ battle lour,
See approach proud Edward’s power—
Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?—
Let him turn, and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s King and Law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand or freeman fa’,
Let him follow me!
By Oppression’s woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Let us do, or die!
Robert Burns. CXXXIII
THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat?
Then let the loons beware, Sir,
There’s wooden walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore, Sir!
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe
On British ground to rally!
O let us not, like snarling tykes,
In wrangling be divided,
Till, slap! come in an unco loun,
And wi’ a rung decide it!
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang oursels united!
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted!
The kettle o’ the Kirk and State,
Perhaps a clout may fail in’t;
But Deil a foreign tinkler loon
Shall ever ca’ a nail in’t!
Our fathers’ blude the kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it,
By Heav’ns! the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it!
The wretch that wad a tyrant own,
And the wretch, his true-sworn brother,
Who would set the mob above the throne,
May they be damned together!
Who will not sing ‘God save the King,’
Shall hang as high’s the steeple;
But while we sing ‘God Save the King,’
We’ll ne’er forget the People!
Robert Burns. CXXXIV
THEIR GROVES O’ SWEET MYRTLE 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 bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly, unseen;
For there, lightly tripping amang the white flowers,
A-list’ning the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
Tho’ rich is the breeze in their gay, sunny vallies,
And cauld Caledonia’s blast on the wave,
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
What are they?—the haunt of the tyrant and slave!
The slave’s spicy forests and gold-bubbling fountains
The brave Caledonian views wi’ disdain:
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save Love’s willing fetters—the chains o’ his Jean.
Robert Burns.
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