Robert Burns

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent;
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O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent;
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content.

Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear.

Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear.

His locked, lettered, braw brass collar,
Shewed him the gentleman and scholar.

His locked, lettered, braw brass collar,
Shewed him the gentleman and scholar.

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.
from the poem
The Cotter’s Saturday Night.

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.
from the poem
The Cotter’s Saturday Night.

Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see!
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie
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Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see!
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie
In scented bowers!
Ye roses on your thorny tree
The first o' flow'rs.