Classic Poem

I winna bide in your castle ha's,
Nor yet in your lofty towers, —
My heart is sick o' your gloomy hame,
An' sick o' your darksome bowers;
An' O! I wish I were far awa'
Frae their grandeur an' their gloom,
Where the freeborn lintie, sings its sang,
On the muir o' gorse an' broom.

Sae weel as I like the healthfu' gale
That blads fu' kindly there,
An' the heather brown, an' the wild blue-bell,
That wave on the muirland bare;
And the singing birds, an' the humming bees,
An' the little lochs that toom
Their gushin' burns to the distant sea,
O'er the muir o' gorse an' broom.

O! if I had a dwallin' there,
Biggit laigh by a burnie's side,
Where ae aik-tree, in the simmer-time,
Wi' its leaves that hame might hide, —
O! I wad rejoice frae day to day,
As blithe as a young bridegroom;
For dearer than palaces to me
Is the muir o' gorse an' broom!

In a lanely cot on a muirland wild,
My mither nurtured me:
O' the meek wild-flowers I playmates made,
An' my hame wi' the wandering bee:
An' O! if I were far awa'
Frae your grandeur an' your gloom,
Wi' them again, an' the bladdin' gale,
On the muir o' gorse an' broom!