C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Allan Cunningham (1784–1842)

IT’S hame, and it’s hame, hame fain wad I be,

An’ it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

When the flower is i’ the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,

The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie.

It’s hame, and it’s hame, hame fain wad I be,

And it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o’ loyalty’s beginning for to fa’;

The bonny white rose it is withering an’ a’:

But I’ll water ’t wi’ the blude of usurping tyrannie,

An’ green it will grow in my ain countrie.

It’s hame, and it’s hame, hame fain wad I be,

And it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

There’s naught now frae ruin my country can save,—

But the keys o’ kind heaven to open the grave;

That a’ the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie,

May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.

It’s hame, and it’s hame, hame fain wad I be,

An’ it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The great now are gane, a’ wha ventured to save,—

The new grass is springing on the tap o’ their grave;

But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my ee—

“I’ll shine on ye yet in yer ain countrie.”

It’s hame, and it’s hame, hame fain wad I be,

An’ it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie.