Each whirl of the wheel,
Each step brings me nearer
The hame of my youth--
Every object grows dearer.
Thae hills and thae huts,
And thae trees on that green,
Losh! they glower in my face
Like some kindly auld frien'.
E'en the brutes they look social,
As gif they would crack;
And the sang o' the birds
Seems to welcome me back.
Oh, dear to our hearts
Is the hand that first fed us,
And dear is the land
And the cottage that bred us.
And dear are the comrades
With whom we once sported,
And dearer the maiden
Whose love we first courted.
Joy's image may perish,
E'en grief die away;
But the scenes of our youth
Are recorded for aye.