Oh! tell na me that this is hame,—
⁠It is nae hame to me:
Ilk thing is fremit to my heart,
⁠An' unco to my e'e.

If I could see the bonnie brume
⁠On ilka sandy knowe;
An' the whins in a' their gowden pride,
⁠On green hill sides that grow:

If I could see the primrose blume
⁠In mony a hazel glen,
Whar linties chirp, and merles sing,
⁠Far free the step o' men:

If I could see the morning sun
⁠Glint owre the dewy corn,
While a thousan' laverocks in the sky
⁠Are welcoming the morn:

If I could see the gowan spread
⁠Its wee flowers on the lea,
An' the heather blume on the mountain bare,
⁠And the ivy climb the tree:

If I could see the sunny kirk-yard,
⁠Whar my frien's lie side by side,
And think that I could lay my banes
⁠Beside them when I died:—

Then might I think that this was hame,
⁠And gladly live and dee,
Nor feel this want at my heart's core,
⁠My native land, for thee.