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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