The sun rises bright in France,
—And fair sets he;
BuThe has tint the blithe blink he had
—In my ain countrie.

O, it's nae my ain ruin
—That saddens aye my e'e,
But the dear Marie I left behin'
—Wi' sweet bairnies three.

My lanely hearth burned bonnie,
—An' smiled my ain Marie;
I've left a' my heart behin'
—In my ain countrie.

The bird comes back to summer,
—And the blossom to the bee;
But I'll win back, O never,
—To my ain countrie.

O, I am leal to high Heaven,
—Which aye was leal to me,
An' there I'll meet ye a' soon
—Frae my ain countrie!