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Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the Border,
Weel, my babie, may thou furder!
Harry the louns o' the laigh Countrie,
Syne to the Highlands hame to me.


OH I am come to the low Countrie,

Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!
Without a penny in my purse,

To buy a meal to me.

It was na sae in the Highland hills,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!

Nae woman in the Country wide,
Sae happy was as me.

For then I had a score o' kye,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!
Feeding on yon hill sae high,
And giving milk to me.

And there I had three score o' yowes,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!
Skipping on yon bonie knowes,
And casting woo to me.

I was the happiest of a' the Clan,
Sair, sair, may I repine;
For Donald was the brawest man,
And Donald he was mine.

Till Charlie Stewart cam at last,

Sae far to set us free;

My Donald's arm was wanted then,
For Scotland and for me.

Their waefu' fate what need I tell,
Right to the wrang did yield;
My Donald and his Country fell,
Upon Culloden field.

Ochon! O Donald, oh!

Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!

Nae woman in the warld wide,

Sae wretched now as me.


IF was a' for our rightfu' King
We left fair Scotland's strand;
It was a' for our rightfu' King

We e'er saw Irish land, my dear,
We e'er saw Irish land.

Now a' is done that men can do,
And a' is done in vain;

My Love and Native Land fareweel,
For I maun cross the main, my dear,
For I maun cross the main.

He turn'd him right and round about,
Upon the Irish shore;

And gae his bridle reins a shake,

With adieu for evermore, my dear,
And adieu for evermore.

The soger frae the wars returns,
The sailor frae the main;

But I hae parted frae my Love,
Never to meet again, my dear,
Never to meet again, my dear.

When day is gane, and night is come,
And a' folk bound to sleep;

I think on him that's far awa,

The lee-lang night and weep, my dear,

The lee-lang night and weep.


No Spartan tube, no Attic shell,

No lyre Æolian I awake;

'Tis liberty's bold note I swell,

Thy harp, Columbia, let me take!
See gathering thousands, while I sing,
A broken chain exulting bring,

And dash it in a tyrant's face,
And dare him to his very beard,

And tell him he no more is feared

No more the despot of Columbia's race!

A tyrant's proudest insults brav'd,

They shout-a People freed! They hail an Empire saved.

Where is man's godlike form?

Where is that brow erect and bold

That eye that can unmov'd behold
The wildest rage, the loudest storm
That e'er created fury dared to raise?
Avaunt! thou caitiff, servile, base,

That tremblest at a despot's nod,

Yet, crouching under the iron rod,

Canst laud the hand that struck th' insulting


Art thou of man's Imperial line?

Dost boast that countenance divine?

Ending skulking feature answers, No!

But come, ye sons of Liberty,

Columbia's offspring, brave as free,

In danger's hour still flaming in the van,

Ye know, and dare maintain, the Royalty of


Alfred! on thy starry throne,

Surrounded by the tuneful choir,

The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,
And rous'd the freeborn Briton's soul of fire,

No more thy England own!

Dare injured nations form the great design,

To make detested tyrants bleed?

Thy England execrates the glorious deed!
Beneath her hostile banners waving,

Every pang of honour braving,

England in thunder calls, "The tyrant's cause is mine!"
That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice

And hell, thro' all her confines, raise the exulting voice,
That hour which saw the generous English name
Linkt with such damnèd deeds of everlasting shame!

Thee, Caledonia! thy wild heaths among,

Fam'd for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of Freedom fled?

Immingled with the mighty dead,

Beneath that hallow'd turf where Wallace lies
Here it not, WALLACE! in thy bed of death.
Ye babbling winds in silence sweep,
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,

Nor give the coward secret breath!
Is this the ancient Caledonian form,

Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm?

Show me that eye which shot immortal hate,

Blasting the despot's proudest bearing;

Show me that arm which, nerv'd with thundering fate, Crush'd Usurpation's boldest daring!

Dark-quench'd as yonder sinking star,

No more that glance lightens afar;

That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war.


HERE, where the Scottish Muse immortal lives,
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers joined,
Accept the gift; though humble he who gives,
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.

So may no ruffled feeling in my breast,
Discordant, jar thy bosom-chords among;
But Peace attune thy gentle soul to rest,
Or Love ecstatic wake his seraph song,

Or Pity's notes, in luxury of tears,

As modest Want the tale of woe reveals; While conscious Virtue all the strains endears, And heaven-born Piety her sanction seals.


Tune-" O'er the hills and far away."

How can my poor heart be glad,
When absent from my sailor lad;
How can I the thought forego-
He's on the seas to meet the foe?
Let me wander, let me rove,
Still my heart is with my love;
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day,
Are with him that's far away.

Chorus. On the seas and far away,

On stormy seas and far away;
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day,
Are aye with him that's far away.

When in summer noon I faint,
As weary flocks around me pant,
Haply in this scorching sun,

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