 | The poetical remains |  |
142
Home.
What is't at times that makes me rave?
What is't that draws the heavy sigh?
What is't, while looking o'er the wave,
That brings the tear-drop in my eye?
It is because I'm doomed to roam,
And mourn my sweet, my native home.
What is't that draws the heavy sigh?
What is't, while looking o'er the wave,
That brings the tear-drop in my eye?
It is because I'm doomed to roam,
And mourn my sweet, my native home.
The Indian landscapes fair to view,
In wild majestic grandeur dressed,
Each flow'ret of the gaudiest hue
Blooms in this garden of the west;
But through these scenes I sadly roam,
And mourn my sweet, my native home.
In wild majestic grandeur dressed,
Each flow'ret of the gaudiest hue
Blooms in this garden of the west;
But through these scenes I sadly roam,
And mourn my sweet, my native home.
The maids are gentle as the dove,
With locks of jet and cheeks of brown,
Their eyes ne'er dart but beams of love;
Their brows ne'er wrinkle with a frown.
Yet careless from them all I roam,
To mourn my sweet, my native home.
With locks of jet and cheeks of brown,
Their eyes ne'er dart but beams of love;
Their brows ne'er wrinkle with a frown.
Yet careless from them all I roam,
To mourn my sweet, my native home.
143
But why need I thus idly pine?
The storm of woe may soon be o'er;
Pleasure and joy again be mine,
And I may see my fields once more.
Again perhaps I need not roam,
To mourn my sweet, my native home.
The storm of woe may soon be o'er;
Pleasure and joy again be mine,
And I may see my fields once more.
Again perhaps I need not roam,
To mourn my sweet, my native home.
Land of my fathers, I'll rejoice,
If I no more from thee will stray,
When on thy hills I raise my voice,
And trill to thee a Scottish lay:
For though I have been doomed to roam,
I love my sweet, my native home.
If I no more from thee will stray,
When on thy hills I raise my voice,
And trill to thee a Scottish lay:
For though I have been doomed to roam,
I love my sweet, my native home.
| The poetical remains | |