English Poetry II: From Collins to Fitzgerald.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Allan Cunningham
463. Hame, Hame, Hame
H
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!
The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countree;
Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be—
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!
The bonnie White Rose it is withering an’ a’;
But I’ll water ’t wi’ the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An’ green it will graw in my ain countree.
But the keys o’ kind heaven, to open the grave;
That a’ the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie
May rise again an’ fight for their ain countree.
The new grass is springing on the tap o’ their grave;
But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my e’e,
‘I’ll shine on ye yet in your ain countree.’
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!