On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw,
The burn rins blithe and fain: There's nought wi' me I wadna gie
To look thereon again.
On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide:
There sounds nae hunting-horn That rings sae sweet as the winds that beat
Round banks where Tyne is born.
The Wansbeck sings with all her springs
The bents and braes give ear; But the wood that rings wi' the sang she sings
I may not see nor hear; For far and far thae blithe burns are,
And strange is a' thing near.
The light there lightens, the day there brightens,
The loud wind there lives free : Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by me
That I wad hear or see.
But O gin I were there again,
Afar ayont the faem, Cauld and dead in the sweet saft bed
That haps my sires at hame !
We'll see nae mair the sea-banks fair,
And the sweet grey gleaming sky, And the lordly strand of Northumberland,
And the goodly towers thereby ; And none shall know but the winds that blow
The graves wherein we lie.
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