Poetry of Cunningham
Allan Cunningham
born 1784, died 1842
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It 's Hame, And It 's Hame
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!
When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree,
The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countree;
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!
The green leaf o'loyaltie 's beginning for to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';
But I 'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countree.
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!
There 's naught now frae ruin my country can save,
But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs who dies for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countree.
It 's hame, and it 's hame, haim fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!
The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save,
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave;
But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my ee:
"I 'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree."
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!
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