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With thunder from her native oak,
she quells the floods below,
Like the roar on the shore,
when the stormy tempests blow.
The meteor flag of Britain,
shall yet terrific burn!
Till danger’s troubled night depart,
and the star of peace return;
Then, then ye ocean-warriors,
our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
when the trumpets ceaſe to blow.
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE.
O this is no mine ain house,
I ken by the rigging o’t;
Since wi’ my love I’ve chang’d vows,
I dinna like the bigging o’t:
For now that I’m young Roble’s bride,
And mistress of his fire-side.
Mine ain house I like to guide,
And please me wi’ the trigging o’t.
