The Book of Scottish Song/Farewell, ye Streams

Farewell, ye Streams.

[Cunningham.—Air, "Lassie wi' the Yellow Coatie."]

Farewell, ye streams, sae dear to me,
My bonnie Cluden, Nith, an' Dee;
Ye burns that row sae bonnilie,
Your siller waves nae mair I'll see.
Yet tho' frae your green banks I'm driven,
My saul away could ne'er be riven;
For still she lifts her een to heaven,
An' sighs to be again with thee.

Ye canty bards ayont the Tweed,
Your skins wi' claes o' tartan cleed,
An' lilt alang the verdant mead,
Or blythly on your whistles blaw;
An' sing auld Scotia's barns an' ha's;
Her bourtree dykes an' mossy wa's;
Her faulds, her bughts, an' birken shaws,
Whar love an' freedom sweetens a'.

Sing o' her carles, teuch an' auld;
Her carlines grim, that flyte an' scauld;
Her wabsters blythe, an' souters bauld;
Her flock an' herds sae fair to see.
Sing o' her mountains, bleak an' high;
Her fords, whar neighrin' kelpies ply;
Her glens, the haunts o' rural joy;
Her lasses lilting o'er the lea.

To you the darling theme belangs,
That frae my heart exulting spangs;
O mind, amang your bonnie sangs,
The lads that bled for liberty.
Think on our auld forbears o' yore,
Wha dy'd the muirs wi' hostile gore;
Wha slavery's bands indignant tore,
An' bravely fell for you an' me.

My gallant brithers, brave an' bauld,
Wha haud the pleugh, or wake the fauld,
Until your dearest bluid rin cauld,
Aye true unto your country be.
Wi' daring look her durk she drew,
An' coost a mither's e'e on you;
Then letna onie spulzien crew
Her dear-bought freedom wrest frae thee.

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