Their groves o’ sweet myrtle let Foreign Lands reckon,Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume;Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green breckan,Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang, yellow broom.Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowersWhere the blue-bell and gowan lurk, lowly, unseen;For there, lightly tripping, among the wild flowers,A-list’ning the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
Tho’ rich is the breeze in their gay, sunny valleys,And cauld Caledonia’s blast on the wave;Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,What are they?—the haunt of the Tyrant and Slave.The Slave’s spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,The brave Caledonian views wi’ disdain;He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,Save Love’s willing fetters—the chains of his Jean.