scotland.
25
Not to the wealthy or the great,
Doth intellect belong,—
The poet in his low thatched cot
Can pour his soul in song.
Doth intellect belong,—
The poet in his low thatched cot
Can pour his soul in song.
And while I for a model seek,
Mine eve instinctive turns,
And fondly wreathed around my heart,
I find the name of Burns.
Mine eve instinctive turns,
And fondly wreathed around my heart,
I find the name of Burns.
Who does not love the author well,
Of that enchanting tune,
Which sweetly steals across the heart—
The "Braes o' Bonnie Doon?"
Of that enchanting tune,
Which sweetly steals across the heart—
The "Braes o' Bonnie Doon?"
I loved it in my happier hours;
I love it better now;
Since I, like that lone one, have learned
To mourn a broken vow.
I love it better now;
Since I, like that lone one, have learned
To mourn a broken vow.
And should my fancy seek to rove
'Mid scenes of beauty wild,
I'd turn to thee, thou gifted Scot!
Fair Scotia's darling child!
'Mid scenes of beauty wild,
I'd turn to thee, thou gifted Scot!
Fair Scotia's darling child!
