Thomas Allardyce

Farewell to old Scotland, the land of my birth, 

The land of true bravery, greatness, and worth; 

Farewell her green valleys and heath-covered hills, 

Her clear sparkling fountains and sweet winding hills. 

Farewell to old Scotland, the land of the free, 

The land of all others the dearest to me; 

Where’er I may wander, where’er I may be, 

My heart still shall cling, bonnie Scotland, to thee. 

Farewell to old Scotland, the and I revere, 

Farewell to my cot by the streamlet so clear; 

Farewell to the friends I must now leave behind, 

Whose friendship has ever been faithful and kind. 

Farewell to old Scotland, the land of the fair, 

Farewell to my Mary, the peerless and rare; 

Wherever, sweet maid of my heart, I may be, 

My thoughts oft shall return to old Scotland and thee. 

Farewell to old Scotland, the land I adore, 

Ere the sun in his splendour arises once more, 

Dispelling the mist on moor, mountain, and lea, 

My barque shall be far on the wide rolling sea. 

Farewell to old Scotland, the land of my birth, 

The land of true bravery, greatness and worth; 

Farewell her green valleys and heath covered hills, 

Her clear sparkling fountains and sweet winding hills.

In a cottage neat doon Maxwell Street, 

There lives a lass I brawly ken, 

Wi’ beauty rare beyond compare, 

They ca’ her Jeanie Davidson. 

Her sparkling bright blue orbs of light 

Shine like twa bonnie stars abune; 

Her stately mien micht grace a queen, 

Sweet, winsome Jeanie Davidson. 

To hear her voice ye wad rejoice, 

It charms the very heart within; 

And mony a wile lurks in the smile 

O’ bonnie Jeanie Davidson. 

Her artless ways which a’ maun praise, 

Make wooers eager seek to win, 

Wi’ pawky art the hand and heart 

O’ lovely Jeanie Davidson. 

Oh, happy blest, ‘bune a’ the rest, 

Maun be the highly favoured yin, 

Wha wins the heart wi’ pawky art 

O’ charming Jeanie Davidson. 

For pleasures rare maun be his share, 

Until life’s weary race is run, 

Wi’ yin sae neat, sae kind, and sweet, 

As blithesome Jeanie Davidson.

Sing on, sweet bird, thy tuneful lay, 

High perched upon the leafless bough; 

Though bleak and cheerless be the day, 

Thy music, plaintive, soft and low, 

A thrill of joy and rapture brings, 

And makes me stronger far to bear 

The loss of summer’s fragrant things- 

Bud, leaf, and flower, so rich and rare. 

Thy lovely mates – the wild wood rose, 

The blue-bell – all that Flora yields, 

Are hushed in death; and fiercely blows 

 Chill winter’s blast o’er lifeless fields; 

Yet nature, ever kind and good, 

Some compensation still bestows –  

Thy song, resounding through the wood, 

Is healing sweet for winter’s woes. 

Sweet, joyful bird, thy gleeful song, 

 Heard ‘mid the wreck of winter rude, 

Awaking echoes blithe and long, 

Reproves my melancholy mood. 

Thy home the dull and leafless wood,  

Yet thou canst cheerful be, while I, 

With greater cause for gratitude, 

Should careless stray, and pensive sigh. 

Sing on, sing on, thou warbling bird! 

I hear they voice, with joy elate; 

Its tones hath deepest feeling stirred; 

Let me thy wisdom imitate; 

And, through life’s darksome, wintry days 

When friends are gone, and joys are fled, 

Trill forth, with thee, my Maker’s praise, 

Whose goodness ever crowns my head.

A sweet wee wean is oor wee wean, 

I’m very proud to tell; 

‘Mang a’ the weans I see there’s nane 

Can oor wee wean excel. 

Its mither says the very same- 

On this we baith agree; 

A mair complete and perfect wean 

Ne’er gladdened mortal e’e. 

The praises o’ John Tamson’s bairns 

Have boldly been declared; 

Wi’ this wee lass that’s in my airms 

They canna be compared. 

Nor ony o’ the bairnie fair, 

Upheld in auld Scotch sangs, 

Ha’e hauf the charms possessed, I’m shair, 

That to this wean belangs. 

Oh! Had I Burns’s enchanting pen, 

In language clear and plain, 

I’d write and let the world ken 

The beauties o’ oor wean. 

Its rosy cheeks sae soft and sleek, 

Tis bonnie snaw-white broo; 

The sweet bewitching smiles that keek 

Aroun’ her dainty mou’. 

Twa pawky een as bricht as day, 

An reemin’ owre wi’ fun; 

I’m wae to think what havoc they 

May work in years to come. 

What lads may feel their hert strings thrill, 

And strive wi’ micht and main 

To gain the hert, and haun’ as weel, 

O’ oor wee wean.

In keepin a hoose and a wife noo-a-days, 

An’ a when steerin bairnies in meat, shoon, and claes, 

A fallow has faur mair to dae than he’s fit, 

That maun lippen to a’that he earns in the pit. 

Atween hale days, an’ hauf days, an’ quarters an’ a’, 

An days that he ne’er gets a hutch filled ava, 

An’ days that he losses through being unfit, 

He’s a sair harass’d body that works in the pit. 

He has wedges, an’ hammers, an’ shovels, an’ picks, 

An’ pinches, an’ jumpers, oil, pouther, an’ wicks, 

An’ mony mair articles, proper an’ fit 

For his wark, to provide for himsel’ in the pit. 

Noo, when sic a cargo o’ graith he provides 

For himsel’ aff his wages, an’ keeps them besides 

In guid-workin’ order, ye a’ must admit 

That ane fen’s very puirly that works in the pit. 

Sae, atween the dull wark and wee pay noo-a- days, 

An’ the unco high price o’ provisions an’ claes, 

It tak’s ane to be carefu’ an’ wise to be fit 

To mak’ his meat o’t when he works in the pit.

The bonnie Ayrshire lasses’ praise 

Sweet rantin’ Robin ever sung; 

And worthy these his winsome lays 

That owre the realm ha’e sweetly rung. 

And proodly still auld Ayrshire sees 

Her maids wi’ beauty that excels; 

And ‘mang the bonniest o’ these 

We class the lasses o’ Nobel’s. 

In early morn, as doon the street 

They to the Factory repair, 

Dressed oot sae tidy, trig, and neat; 

Wi’ buoyant step and joyous air; 

Or homeward gaun when daylicht flees’ 

The sicht our warmest love compels; 

And cauld’s the heart that joyless sees 

The bonnie lasses o’ Nobel’s. 

For courage, too, a foremost place 

Amang the bravest these may claim; 

What dangers think they hourly face, 

To help the dear auld folks at hame 

An honest, cosy life to lead; 

I daur maintain nae history tells 

Of heroines whose works exceed 

The bonnie lasses o’ Nobel’s. 

In short, their looks sae trig and braw, 

Their eident care and thrifty ways; 

Their self-denying efforts a’, 

The courage, too, that each displays’ 

Our admiration merits still, 

And aye this fervent wish compels; 

May guardian angels shield frae ill 

The bonnie lasses o’ Nobel’s.