Their Groves O’Sweet Myrtle

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’ the burnstealing under the lang, yellow broom.
Far dearer to me are yonhumble broom bowers
Where the blue-bell and gowanlurk, lowly, unseen;
For there, lightlytripping, among the wild flowers,
A-list’ning the linnet, aftwanders my Jean.

Tho’ rich is the breeze in their gay, sunny valleys,
And cauldCaledonia’s blast on the wave;
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
What are they?-the haunt of 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 of his Jean.