Far, far away

Far, far away, in strange country,

The soldier watch is keeping,

Beneath some tower, at midnight hour,

When all besides are sleeping.

The moon is half,—her chilly rays

On hill-tops are reclining:

The sea is calm,—it soothing plays

A soft and sweet repining.

Save this, and the proud soldier's tread,

That is with echo hounding,

All else is stilly as the dead

In hill and plain surrounding.

Say, as he goes his weary round,

What is the thought that rises?

Where are his dark eyes gazing found?

What is the wish he prizes?

Oh! thinks he not of native home,

With memory's thrilling feelings?—

Of scenes where he in youth did roam,

And all their fond revealings?

And looks he not beyond that sea,

Where his lov'd land is lying?

And is it not for it that he

So heavily is sighing?

Scotland!—the word sounds as a spell,

The marks of magic bearing,

And, like a mother's voice, doth swell

Remembrances endearing—

Tho' rough thy shore, and cold thy clime,

Thy son, where'er he ranges,—

Be't by the heavy-rolling Rhine,

Or heavier-rolling Ganges,—

Still thinks upon thy thousand rills,

While the big tear doth gather,—

And longs to climb thy hoary hills,

And brush their native heather.