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The Humors of the Glen (Robert Burns) Their groves o' sweet myrtle let Foreign Lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume, Far dearer to me yon lone glen o'green breckan Wi' th'burn stealing under the lang, yellow broom: Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk, lowly, unseen; For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, oft wanders my Jean. Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay, sunny vallies, And cauld, Caledonia's blast on the wave; Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, What are they ? The haunt o'the tyrant and slave. The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi'disdain; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save love's willing fetters, the chains o'his Jean. Tune:Humors of the Glen (496) ARB
Thanks to Mudcat for the Digital Tradition!