 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
THE BANKS OF NITH
I
The Thames flows proudly to the sea,Where royal cities stately stand;
But sweeter flows the Nith to me,
Where Cummins ance had high command.
When shall I see that honor'd land,
That winding stream I love so dear?
Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand
For ever—ever keep me here?
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II
How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,Where bounding hawthorns gaily bloom,
And sweetly spread thy sloping dales,
Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom!
Tho' wandering now must be my doom
Far from thy bonie banks and braes,
May there my latest hours consume
Amang my friends of early days!
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |