Poems by Robert Nicoll Second edition: with numerous additions, and a memoir of the author |
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THE EXILE'S SONG. |
 | Poems by Robert Nicoll |  |
THE EXILE'S SONG.
This land is rich—baith tree an' bower,
An' hill an' plain, are cover'd o'er
Wi' flowers o' monie, monie dyes,
Till maist it seems a paradise,
Where Love an' Beauty make their hame
Beside ilk flowin' silver stream:—
I ken the land is heavenlie:
But O! it's no my ain countrie!
An' hill an' plain, are cover'd o'er
Wi' flowers o' monie, monie dyes,
Till maist it seems a paradise,
Where Love an' Beauty make their hame
Beside ilk flowin' silver stream:—
I ken the land is heavenlie:
But O! it's no my ain countrie!
Thae hills are green:—nae heather there
Waves in the caller mornin' air;—
Fu' pleasantly thae streamlets rin;
But O! they want the cheerfu' din
O' hame's sweet burns, that ever sung
To me my ain, my mountain tongue:—
I ken the land is fair to see!
But O! it's no my ain countrie!
Waves in the caller mornin' air;—
Fu' pleasantly thae streamlets rin;
But O! they want the cheerfu' din
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To me my ain, my mountain tongue:—
I ken the land is fair to see!
But O! it's no my ain countrie!
The bonnet doesna hap the brow—
The plaidie wraps na bosoms true—
The harp's sweet tones 'mang echoes stray
Where I would like the pipes to play—
The nightingale sings a' night lang
Where I would like the throstle's sang:—
The land is fair as fair can be—
But O! it's no my ain countrie!
The plaidie wraps na bosoms true—
The harp's sweet tones 'mang echoes stray
Where I would like the pipes to play—
The nightingale sings a' night lang
Where I would like the throstle's sang:—
The land is fair as fair can be—
But O! it's no my ain countrie!
When Mirth's warm voice is laughin' hie
The groan o' Care doth danton me—
I canna rest, I canna smile,
Awa' frae yonder rocky isle:
An exile's waefu' fate is mine,
Wha for his hame doth ever pine:—
My heart is sick, an' I will dee
If I win na to my ain countrie!
The groan o' Care doth danton me—
I canna rest, I canna smile,
Awa' frae yonder rocky isle:
An exile's waefu' fate is mine,
Wha for his hame doth ever pine:—
My heart is sick, an' I will dee
If I win na to my ain countrie!
| Poems by Robert Nicoll | |