THE EXILE'S LAMENT.
A SONG.
[_]
Air—“The Banks o' Cayle.”
By the lone Mankazána's margin grey
A Scottish Maiden sung;
And mournfully poured her melting lay
In Teviot's Border tongue:
O, bonny grows the broom on Blaiklaw knowes,
And the birk in Clifton dale;
And green are the hills o' the milk-white ewes,
By the briary banks o' Cayle.
Here bright are the skies—and these valleys of bloom
May enchant the traveller's eye;
But all seems drest in death-like gloom
To the exile—who comes to die!
O, bonny grows the broom, &c.
Far round and round spreads the howling waste,
Where the wild beast roams at will;
And yawning cleughs, by woods embraced,
Where the savage lurks to kill!
O, bonny grows the broom, &c.
Full oft over Cheviot's uplands green
My dreaming fancy strays;
But I wake to weep 'mid the desolate scene
That scowls on my aching gaze!
O, bonny grows the broom, &c.
Oh, light, light is poverty's lowliest state,
On Scotland's peaceful strand,
Compared with the heart-sick exile's fate,
In this wild and weary land!
O, bonny grows the broom, &c.
