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' th’ burn stealing under the lang, yellow broom:
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk, lowly, unseen;
For there, lightly tripping among the wild flowers,
A-list'ning the linnet, oft wanders my JEAN.

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay, sunny vallies,
And cauld CALEDONIA's blast on the wave;
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
What are they? The haunt o’ 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 o' his JEAN.