Far-famed are our sires in the battles of yore,
And many the cairnies that rise on our shore
O'er the foes of the land of the thistle so green;
And many a cairnie shall rise on our strand,
Should the torrent of war ever burst on our land.
Let foe come on foe, as wave comes on wave,
We'll give them a welcome, we'll give them a grave
Beneath the red heather and thistle so green.

Oh, dear to our souls as the blessings of heaven,
Is the freedom we boast, is the land that we live in,
The land of red heather and thistle so green :

For that land and that freedom our fathers have bled,
And we swear by the blood that our fathers have shed,
No foot of a foe shall e'er tread on their grave;
But the thistle shall bloom on the bed of the brave,
The thistle of Scotland, the thistle so green.

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
To my ain countrie.

Oh, it's not my ain ruin

That saddens aye my ee,
But the love I left in Galloway,
Wi' bonnie bairnies three;
My hamely hearth burnt bonnie,
And smiled my fair Marie:
I've left my heart behind me
In my ain countrie.

The bud comes back to summer,
And the blossom to the tree;
But I win back-oh, never,
To my ain countrie.

I'm leal to the high Heaven,

Which will be leal to me;

And there I'll meet ye a' sune
my ain countrie.

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 lark shall sing me hame to my ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame! oh, hame fain wad I be!
Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyaltie's beginning now to fa';
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';
But we'll water't wi' the bluid of usurping tyrannie,
And fresh it shall blaw in my ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame! oh, hame fain wad I be!
Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

Oh, there's nocht now frae ruin my countrie can save,
But the keys o' kind Heaven, to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame! oh, hame fain wad I be !
Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The great now are gane wha attempted to save,
The green grass is growing abune their grave;
Yet the sun through the mirk seems to promise to me,
I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame! oh, hame fain wad I be !
Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

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,
Ye streams renown'd in song;
Farewell, ye braes and blossom'd meads
Our hearts have loved so long!

Farewell the blythesome broomy knowes
Where thyme and harebells grow ;
Farewell the hoary haunted hows
O'erhung with birk and sloe!

The mossy cave and mouldering tower
That skirt our native dell,

The martyr's grave and lover's bower
We bid a sad farewell!

Home of our love, our father's home,
Land of the brave and free,

The sail is flapping on the foam

That bears us far from thee!

In winter, when the rain rain'd cauld,

And frost and snaw on ilka hill,

And Boreas wi' his blasts sae bauld

Was threat'ning' a' our kye to kill;

Then Bell my wife, wha lo'es nae strife,
She said to me richt hastilie,
Get up, gudeman, save Crummie's life,
And tak' your auld cloak about ye.