Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/My ain Countrie

"My Ain Countrie."

From "The Sword and Trowel."Inserted by Permission.

"I am far frae my hame, an' I'm weary aftenwhilesFor the langed-for hame-bringin', an' my Father's welcome smiles;I'll ne'er be fu' content until my e'en do seeThe gowden gates o' heaven, and my ain countrie.

The earth is flecked wi' flowers, mony-tinted, fresh an' gay,The birdies warble blithely, for my father made them sae;But these sights an' these Bonn's will as naething be to meWhen I hear the angels singing in my ain countrie.

I've his gude word o' promise that, some gladsome day, the King,To his ain royal palace, His banished hame will bring;Wi' e'en an' wi' hearts running owre we shall see'The King in His beauty,' an' our ain countrie.

My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair,But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair;His bluid hath made me white, His hand shall wipe mine e'e,When He brings me hame at last to my ain countrie.

Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest,I wad fain be ganging noo unto my Saviour's breast,For He gathers in His bosom witless, worthless lambs like me,An' carries them Himsel' to His ain countrie.

He's faithfu' that hath promised—He'll surely come again—He'll keep His tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken,But He bids me still to watch an' ready aye to beTo gang at ony moment to my ain countrie.

So I'm watchin' aye, an' singing o' my hame, as I wait,For the soun'in o' his footfa' this side the garden gate;God gi'e His grace to ilk ane wha listens noo to me,   That we may a' gang in gladness to our ain countrie."