Oh, it's not my ain ruin

That saddens aye my ee,
But the love I left in Galloway,
Wi' bonnie bairnies three;
My hamely hearth burnt bonnie,
And smiled my fair Marie:
I've left my heart behind me
In my ain countrie.

The bud comes back to summer,
And the blossom to the tree;
But I win back-oh, never,
To my ain countrie.

I'm leal to the high Heaven,

Which will be leal to me;

And there I'll meet

a' sune

Frae my ain countrie.

HAME, HAME, HAME!

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. From Cromek's "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song."

HAME, hame, hame! oh, hame fain wad I be!

Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,

The lark shall sing me hame to my ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame! oh, hame fain wad I be !
Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The

green leaf o' loyaltie's beginning now to fa';
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';
But we'll water't wi' the bluid of usurping tyrannie,
And fresh it shll blaw in my ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame! oh, hame fain wad I be!
Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

Oh, there's nocht now frae ruin my countrie can save,
But the keys o' kind Heaven, to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame! oh, hame fain wad I be !
Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

grave;

The great now are gane wha attempted to save,
The green grass is growing abune their
Yet the sun through the mirk seems to promise to me,
I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame! oh, hame fain wad I be!
Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

FAREWELL TO BONNIE TEVIOTDALE.

THOMAS PRINGLE, born 1789, died 1834.

OUR native land, our native vale,
A long, a last adieu;
Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,

And Cheviot's mountains blue!

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
Ye streams renown'd in song;
Farewell, ye braes and blossom'd meads
Our hearts have loved so long!

Farewell the blythesome broomy knowes
Where thyme and harebells grow;
Farewell the hoary haunted hows

O'erhung with birk and sloe!

The mossy cave and mouldering tower
That skirt our native dell,

The martyr's grave and lover's bower
We bid a sad farewell!

Home of our love, our father's home,
Land of the brave and free,
The sail is flapping on the foam

That bears us far from thee!

IN winter, when the rain rain'd cauld, And frost and snaw on ilka hill, And Boreas wi' his blasts sae bauld

Was threat'ning a' our kye to kill; Then Bell my wife, wha lo'es nae strife, She said to me richt hastilie, Get up, gudeman, save Crummie's life, And tak' your auld cloak about ye.

My Crummie is a usefu' cow,
And she is come of a good kin;
Aft has she wet the bairnie's mou',
And I am laith that she should tyne :
Get up, gudeman, it is fu' time,

The sun shines frae the lift sae hie; Sloth never made a gracious end,— Gae, tak' your auld cloak about ye.

My cloak was ance a gude grey cloak, When it was fitting for my wear; But now it's scantly worth a groat,

For I hae worn't this thretty year: Let's spend the gear that we hae won, We little ken the day we'll dee; Then I'll be proud, since I hae sworn To hae a new cloak about me.

In days when our king Robert rang,

His trews they cost but half-a-croun, He said they were a great ower dear, And ca'd the tailor thief and loon. He was the king that wore the croun, And thou the man of laigh degree: It's pride puts a' the country doun,

Sae tak' your auld cloak about ye.
Ilka land has its ain lauch,

Ilk kind o' corn has its ain hool;
I think the warld has a' gane wrang,

When ilka wife her man wad rule.
Do ye no see Rob, Jock, and Hab,
As they are girded gallantlie,
While I sit huyklin i' the ase?—

I'll hae a new cloak about me.
Gudeman, I wat it's thretty year
Sin' we did ane anither ken,
And we hae had atween us twa

Of lads and bonnie lasses ten;

Now they are women grown and men,