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Burns Robert
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The Humors Of The Glen
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 amang the wild flowers,
A listening the linnet, oft wanders my Jean.
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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.
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