The Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250–1900

THE sun rises bright in France,
  And fair sets he;
But he has tint the blythe blink he had
  In my ain countree.


O, it 's nae my ain ruin
  That saddens aye my e'e,
But the dear Marie I left behin'
  Wi' sweet bairnies three.


My lanely hearth burn'd bonnie,
  And smiled my ain Marie;
I've left a' my heart behin'
  In my ain countree.


The bud comes back to summer,
  And the blossom to the bee;
But I'll win back, O never,
  To my ain countree.


O, I am leal to high Heaven,
  Where soon I hope to be,
An' there I'll meet ye a' soon
  Frae my ain countree!
