SONG
[There's not a land the sea surrounds]
1
There's not a land the sea surrounds,
Sung by a thousand pens;
Or classic waters, classic grounds;
Like Scotland's bonny glens,
The valleys where the poet roams;
Each beacon lighted hill;
Her Scottish hearts, and Scottish homes;
Are green, and welcome still.
2
There's many maids in foreign vales,
That it were well to shun;
But Scottish maids, in Scottish tales,—
Beat all beneath the sun;—
My boyhood saw them by the streams,
By vale, and naked hill;—
And still they haunt my manhoods dreams,—
Sweet, green, and welcome still—
