FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH.
The shade is on thy brow, sweet land,
The shade is on thy brow,
For autumn rends away the crown
That summer gave but now;
I turn me towards a greener clime,
Where Albion's groves appear,
But still the tear is on my cheek
For thee, Edina dear.
There may, perchance, be richer realms,
Where pride and splendour roll,
But thou hast, sure, the wealth of heart,
That wins the stranger's soul;
There may, perchance, be those who say
That Scotia's hills are drear,
Yet tears are lingering on my cheek
For thee, Edina dear.
And when, my pilgrim-wanderings o'er,
I seek my native-land,
And by my ingle-side once more
Do clasp the kindred hand,
And tell my listening children tales
Of climes of foreign fame,
Their grateful tears with mine will fall
At dear Edina's name.
