My tortured bosom long shall feel
The pangs o' this last sad fareweel;
Far, far to foreign lands I stray,
To spend my hours in deepest wae;
Fareweel, my dear, my native soil,
Fareweel, the braes o' Aberfoyle!
An' fare-ye-weel, my winsome love,
Into whatever lands I rove,
Thou 'lt claim the deepest, dearest sigh,
The warmest tear ere wet my eye;
An' when I 'm wan'rin' mony a mile,
I 'll mourn for Kate o' Aberfoyle.
When far upon the raging sea,
As thunders roar, and lightnings flee,
When sweepin' storms the ship assail,
I 'll bless the music o' the gale,
An' think, while listenin' a' the while,
I hear the storms o' Aberfoyle.
Kitty, my only love, fareweel;
What pangs my faithfu' heart will feel,
While straying through the Indian groves,
Weepin' our woes or early loves;
I 'll ne'er mair see my native soil,
Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Aberfoyle!