Fareweel, Ye Streams

Fareweel, ye streams sae dear to me,
My bonnie Clouden, Kith, and Dee;
Ye burns that row sae bonnily,
Your siller waves nae mair I 'll see.
Yet though frae your green banks I 'm driven,
My saul away could ne'er be riven;
For still she lifts her e'en to heaven,
An' sighs to be again wi' thee.

Ye canty bards ayont the Tweed,
Your skins wi' claes o' tartan cleed,
An' lilt alang the verdant mead,
Or blithely on your whistles blaw,
An' sing auld Scotia's barns an ha's,
Her bourtree dykes an mossy wa's,
Her faulds, her bughts, an' birken shaws,
Whare love an' freedom sweeten a'.

Sing o' her carles teuch an' auld,
Her carlines grim that flyte an' scauld,
Her wabsters blithe, an' souters bauld,
Her flocks an' herds sae fair to see.
Sing o' her mountains bleak an high;
Her fords, whare neigh'rin' kelpies ply;
Her glens, the haunts o' rural joy;
Her lasses lilting o'er the lea.

To you the darling theme belangs,
That frae my heart exulting spangs;
Oh, mind, amang your bonnie sangs,
The lads that bled for liberty.
Think o' our auld forbears o' yore,
Wha dyed the muir wi' hostile gore;
Wha slavery's bands indignant tore,
An' bravely fell for you an' me.

My gallant brithers, brave an' bauld,
Wha haud the pleugh, or wake the fauld,
Until your dearest bluid rin cauld,
Aye true unto your country be.
Wi' daring look her dirk she drew,
An' coost a mither's e'e on you;
Then let na ony spulzien crew
Her dear-bought freedom wrest frae thee.