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 Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green brecken,

Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom,

Far dearer to me are yon humble green bowers,

Where the blue-bell and lurk lowly unseen,

For there, lightly tripping, among the wild flowers

A-listning the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valley,

And auld Caladonia’s blast on the wave;

Their sweet scented woodlands, that skirt the proud palace,

What are they?—the hunt o’ the tyrant and slave,

The slave spicy forests, and gold bubbling fountains

The brave Caladonian views wi’ disdain;

He wanders as free as the wind on his mountain,

Save Love’s willing fetters—the chains of his Jean

 

BENEATH THE WILLOW TREE

O take me to your arms, my love,

for keen the wind doth blaw;

O take me to your arms, my love,

for bitter is my woe.

She hears me not, she cares not,

nor will she list to me;

And here I die in misery,

beneath the willow tree.

Willow, willow, willow,

Beneath the willow tree.