1 I am far frae my hame, an' I'm weary aftenwhiles,
For the lang'd-for-hame-bringing, an' my Father's welcome smiles,
I'll ne'er be fu' content, until my een do see
The gow den gates of heav'n, an' my ain countrie.
The earth is fleck'd wi' flow'rs, mony-tinted-fresh and gay;
The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae;
But these sichts an' these soun's wil as naething be to me,
When I hear the angels singing in my ain countrie.

2 I've his gude word of promise, that, some gladsome day, the King,
To his ain royal palace, his banished hame will bring
Wi' een' an' wi' heart running owre we shall see
"The King in his beauty," an' our ain countrie.
My sins hae been mony, and my sorrows hae been sair;
But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair,
For his bluid hath made me white, and his hand shall dry my e'e,
When he brings me hame at last to my ain countrie.