The Humors of the Glen

(Robert Burns)



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' th'burn stealing under the lang, yellow broom:

Far dearer to me are 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, oft wanders my Jean.





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

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 winds of his mountains,

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



Tune:Humors of the Glen (496)

@Scots @patriotic @love



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