Thou land of the valley, the moor, and the hill,

Of the storm and the proud rolling wave-
Yes, thou art the land of fair liberty still,

And the land of my forefather's grave!


Air-"The Black Joke."

LET them boast of the country gave Patrick his fame, Of the land of the ocean and Anglian name,

With the red-blushing roses and shamrock so green : Far dearer to me are the hills of the North, The land of blue mountains, the birth-place of worth ; Those mountains where Freedom has fix'd her abode, Those wide-spreading glens where no slave ever trode,

Where blooms the red heather and thistle so green.

Though rich be the soil where blossoms the rose,
And barren the mountains and cover'd with snows

Where blooms the red heather and thistle so green ;
Yet for friendship sincere, and for loyalty true,
And for courage so bold which no foe could subdue,
Unmatch'd is our country, unrivall’d our swains,
And lovely and true are the nymphs on our plains,

Where rises the thistle, the thistlé so green.

Far-famed are our sires in the battles of yore,
And many the cairnies that rise on our shore

O'er the foes of the land of the thistle so green;
And many a cairnie shall rise on our strand,
Should the torrent of war ever burst on our land.
Let foe come on foe, as wave comes on wave,
We'll give them a welcome, we'll give them a grave

Beneath the red heather and thistle so green.


Oh dear to our souls as the blessings of heaven,
Is the freedom we boast, is the land that we live in,

The land of red heather and thistle so green :
For that land and that freedom our fathers have bled,
And we swear by the blood that our fathers have shed,
No foot of a foe shall e'er tread on their grave;
But the thistle shall bloom on the bed of the brave,

The thistle of Scotland, the thistle so green.

This song was inserted in Hogg's “ Jacobite Relics." The Shepherd states, in introducing it: “This is a modern song, and the only one that is in the volume, to my knowledge. It had no right to be here, for it is a national, not a Jacobite song; but I insert it out of a whim, to vary the theme a little. It is an excellent song, though professedly an imitation, and when tolerably sung, never misses of having a good effect among a company of Scots people. It has been published as mine in several collections; I wish it were; but I am told that it was written by Mr. Sutherland, land surveyor, a gentleman of whom I know nothing, save that he is the author of some other popular songs.” As nothing else has been discovered of Mr. Sutherland, the song is supposed to have been written by Hogg himself.

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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

ain countrie.
The bud comes back to summer,

And the blossom to the trec ;
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 ye a' sune

Frae my ain countrie.


From Cromek's “ Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway

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 trcc,
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 tyrannic,
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!

The great now are gane wha attempted to save,
The green grass is growing abune their grave;
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 !


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 !

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