Classic Poem

Though Scotland's hills be far awa',
And her glens, where the clear silver burnies row,
I see them and hear her wild breezes blaw,
O'er the moors where the blue-bells and heather grow.

Oh, hame is sweet!—but thae hames o' thine
Are the kindliest far that the sun doth see;
And, though far awa' I have biggit mine,
As my mother's name they are dear to me!

I love the tale, o' thy glories auld,
Which thy shepherds tell on the mountain side;
Of thy martyrs true and thy warriors bauld,
Who for thee and for freedom lived and died!

Land of my youth! though my heart doth move,
And sea-like my blood rises high at thy name,
'Boon a' thing there's ae thing in thee I love—
The virtue and truth o' thy poor man's hame.

The poor man's hame! where I first did ken
That the soul alone makes the good and great—
That glitter and glare are false and vain,
And deceit upon glory's slave doth wait.

Thy poor man's hame! wi' its roof o' strae,
A hut as lowly as lowly can be—
Through it the blast sae cauldrife does gae;
Yet hame o' the lowly, I'm proud o' thee!

Scotland! to thee thy sons afar
Send blessings on thy rocks, thy flood and faem—
On mountain and muir, on glen and scaur—
But deeper blessings still on thy poor man's hame!