Our ain Land.
[William Ferousson.—Here first printed.—Tune, "John Barleycorn." The two first lines of this chorus are from a song by Hew Ainslie in his "Pilgrimage to the Land of Burns."]
Hurrah, and hurrah,
And hurrah, my merry men!
I wadna gi'e our ain land
For a' the lands I ken.
There may be lands where safter airs
Float down mair flowery vales—
Gi'e me the stirring mountain-breeze,
That swells our norlan' sails:—
And weel ye ken we've flowers enow,
Their names I needna tell,
We've aye the fearless thistle, lads!
And eke the sweet blue-bell.
Then hurrah, &c.
They boast o' lands wi' fairer skies,
And fields o' brighter bloom:
But leeze me on our heather-land,
Wi' a' its hamely gloom:—
And, tent me weel, there's mony a blink
Its darksome moods atween;
Sweet sunny blinks, that paint our hills
Wi' tints o' gowd and green.
Then hurrah, &c.
They sing o' lands where liberty
Has reared hersel' a hame—
And blest be they! for her dear sake,
We lo'e their very name:—
But by the men wha 'mang our hills
For freedom battled lang,
Auld Scotland yet shall bear the bell
For liberty and sang!
Then hurrah, &c.
I've worshipp'd on its mountain tops;
I've woo'd amang its dells;
And happy been in mony a cot,
Where love, where beauty dwells.
Its green turf covers mony a grave
O friends we lost langsyne:
And may the same dear, fragrant sod,
Lie saftly upon mine!
Then hurrah, &c.