The Book of Scottish Song/Hills o' Caledonia

Hills o' Caledonia.

[Alexander Hume.—Air, "Hey, Donald, ho, Donald."—Here first printed.]

O years ha'e come, an' years ha'e gane,
Sin' first I trod the warld alane,
Sin' first I mused wi' heart sae fain
On the hills o' Caledonia.

But now, alas! a' round is gloom,
My ancient friends are in the tomb,
And o'er them waves the heather bloom,
On the hills o' Caledonia.

My father's name, my father's lot,
Is like a tale that's heeded not,
Or sang unsung, if no forgot,
On the hills o' Caledonia.

O' a' our house there's left nae stane,
A' swept away like snaw lang gane;
Weeds flourish owre the auld domain,
On the hills o' Caledonia.

The Tiot's banks are bare and high,
The stream rins sma' an' mournfu' by,
Like some sad heart maist grutten dry
On the hills o' Caledonia.

The birds sit silent on the tree,
The wild flow'rs droop upon the lea,
As if the kind things felt wi' me
On the hills o' Caledonia.

But friends can live, though cauld they lie,
If mirror'd in the memory;
When we forget them—then they die
On the hills o' Caledonia.

But though, however changed the scene,
My mem'ry an' my feelings green,
Yet green to my auld heart an' een
Are the hills o' Caledonia.

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