Chapter CXXXIV: Their Groves O’ Sweet Myrtle

Their groves o’ sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume!
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green breckan,
Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang, yellow broom;
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly, unseen;
For there, lightly tripping amang the white flowers,
A-list’ning the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

Tho’ rich is the breeze in their gay, sunny vallies,
And cauld Caledonia’s blast on the wave,
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
What are they?--the haunt of the tyrant and slave!
The slave’s spicy forests and gold-bubbling fountains
The brave Caledonian views wi’ disdain:
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save Love’s willing fetters--the chains o’ his Jean.

_Robert Burns._

SCOTT