Sweetest warbler of the wood,

         Rise thy soft bewitching strain,

      And in pleasure’s sprightly mood,

               Soar again.

      With the sun’s returning beam,

         First appearance from the east,

      Dimpling every limpid stream,

               Up from rest.

      Thro’ the airy mountains stray,

         Chant thy welcome songs above,

      Full of sport and full of play,

               Songs of love.

      When the evening cloud prevails,

         And the sun gives way for night,

      When the shadows mark the vales,

               Return thy flight.

      Like the cottar or the swain,

         Gentle shepherd, or the herd;

      Rest thou till the morn again,

               Bonny bird!

      Like thee, on freedom’s airy wing,

         May the poet’s rapturous spark,

      Hail the first approach of spring,

               Bonny lark!

      Home of my boyish days, how can I call

      Scenes to my memory, that did befall?

      How can my trembling pen find power to tell

      The grief I experienced in bidding farewell?

      Can I forget the days joyously spent,

      That flew on so rapidly, sweet with content?

      Can I then quit thee, whose memory’s so dear,

      Home of my boyish days, without one tear?

      Can I look back on happy days gone by,

      Without one pleasant thought, without one sigh

      Ah, no! though never more these eyes may dwell

      On thee, old cottage home, I love so well:

      Home of my childhood! wherever I be,

      Thou art the nearest and dearest to me!

      Can I forget the songs sung by my sire,

      Like some prophetic bard tuning the lyre?

      Sweet were the notes that he taught to the young;

      Psalms for the Sabbath, on Sabbath were sung;

      And the young minstrels enraptured would come

      To the little lone cottage I once called my home.

      Can I forget the dear landscape around,

      Where in my boyish days I could be found,

      Stringing my hazel-bow, roaming the wood,

      Fancying myself to be bold Robin Hood?

      Then would my mother say – “Where is he gone?

      I’m waiting for shuttles that he should have ‘wun’?” —

      She in that cottage there, knitting her healds,

      And I, her young forester, roaming the fields.

      But the shades of the evening gather slowly around,

      The twilight it thickens and darkens the ground,

      Night’s sombre mantle is spreading the plain.

      And as I turn round to look on thee again,

      To take one fond look, one last fond adieu,

      By night’s envious hand thou art snatched from my view;

      But Oh! there’s no darkness – to me – no decay,

      Home of my boyhood, can chase thee away!

      O welcome, young princess, thou sweetest of dowters,

         An’ furst bloomin’ issue o’ King Sixty-four,

      Wi’ thi brah deck’d wi’ gems o’ the purest o’ waters,

         Tha tells us thi sire, stern winter, is ower.

      We hail thi approach wi’ palm-spangled banners;

         The plant an’ the saplin’ await thi command;

      An’ Natur herseln, to show her good manners,

         Nah spreads her green mantle all ower the land.

      Tha appears in t’ orchard, in t’ garden, an’ t’ grotto,

         Where sweet vegetation anon will adorn;

      Tha smiles on the lord no more than the cottar,

         For thi meanest o’ subjects tha nivver did scorn.

      O hasten ta labour! ye wise, O be goin’!

         These words they are borne on the wings o’ the wind;

      That bids us be early i’ plewin’ an’ sowin’,

         Fer him at neglects, tha’ll leave him behind.

      I’ sooth shoo wor a reeal God-send,

      Ta t’ human race the greatest friend,

      An’ liv’d, no daht, at t’other end

            O’ history.

      Her name is nah, yah may depend,

            A mystery.

      But sprang shoo up fra royal blood,

      Or some poor slave beyond the Flood,

      Mi blessing on the sooap an’ sud

            Shoo did invent;

      Her name sall renk ameng the