Far-famed are our sires in the battles of yore, Oh, dear to our souls as the blessings of heaven, For that land and that freedom our fathers have bled, This song was inserted in Hogg's "Jacobite Relics." The Shepherd states, in introducing it: "This is a modern song, and the only one that is in the volume, to my knowledge. It had no right to be here, for it is a national, not a Jacobite song; but I insert it out of a whim, to vary the theme a little. It is an excellent song, though professedly an imitation, and, when tolerably sung, never misses of having a good effect among a company of Scots people. It has been published as mine in several collections; I wish it were; but I am told that it was written by Mr. Sutherland, land-surveyor, a gentleman of whom I know nothing, save that he is the author of some other popular songs." As nothing else has been discovered of Mr. Sutherland, the song is supposed to have been written by Hogg himself. MY AIN COUNTRIE. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. THE sun rises bright in France, And fair sets he; But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countrie. Oh, gladness comes to many, But sorrow comes to me, As I look o'er the wide ocean Oh, it's not my ain ruin That saddens aye my ee, The bud comes back to summer, I'm leal to the high Heaven, Which will be leal to me; And there I'll meet ye a' sune Frae HAME, HAME, HAME! ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. From Cromek's "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song." HAME, hame, hame! oh, hame fain wad I be! Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree, The green leaf o' loyaltie's beginning now to fa'; Oh, there's nocht now frae ruin my countrie can save, The great now are gane wha attempted to save, Hame, hame, hame! oh, hame fain wad I be ! FAREWELL TO BONNIE TEVIOTDALE. THOMAS PRINGLE, born 1789, died 1834. OUR native land, our native vale, A long, a last adieu ; Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale, And Cheviot's mountains blue! Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, Farewell the blythesome broomy knowes The mossy cave and mouldering tower The martyr's grave and lover's bower Home of our love, our father's home, The sail is flapping on the foam That bears us far from thee! |