O why left I my hame

The palm-tree waveth high, and fair the myrtle springs,

And to the Indian maid the bulbul sweetly sings;

But I dinna see the broom wi' its tassels on the lea,

Nor hear the lintie's sang o' my ain countrie.

Oh! here no Sabbath bell awakes the Sabbath morn,

Nor song of reapers heard among the yellow corn:

For the tyrant's voice is here, and the wail of slaverie;

But the sun of freedom shines in my ain countrie.

There's a hope for every woe, and a balm for every pain,

But the first joys of our heart come never back again.

There's a track upon the deep, and a path across the sea,

But the weary ne'er return to their ain countrie.