Their groves o' sweet myrtle

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume,

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,

Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom;

Far dearer to me yon humble broom bowers,

Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen,

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,

A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,

And cauld, Caledonia's blast on the wave;

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,

What are they? The haunt o' the tyrant and slave!

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,

The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain:

He wanders as free as the wind o'er his mountains,

Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.