MY AIN COUNTREE
Im far frae my hame, an Im weary aftenwhiles,
For the langed-for hame-bringing an my Fathers welcome smiles;
Ill neer be fu content, until my een do see
The shining gates o heaven an my ain countree.
The earth is flecked wi flowers, mony-tinted, fresh an gay,
The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae;
But these sights an these souns will as naething be to me,
When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree.
Ive 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 hearts runnin ower we shall see
The King in his beauty in our own countree.
My sins hae been mony, an my sorrows hae been sair,
But there theyll never vex me, nor be remembered mair;
His bluid has made me white, his hand shall dry mine ee,
When he brings me home at last to my ain countree.
Like a bairn to his mither, a wee birdie to its nest,
I wad fain be ganging noo unto my Saviours breast;
For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless lambs like me,
An he carries them himsel to his ain countree.
Hes faithfu that hath promised, hell surely come again;
Hell keep his tryst wi me, at what hour I dinna ken:
But he bids me still to wait, an ready aye to be,
To gang at ony moment to my ain countree.
So Im watchin aye, an singin o my hame as I wait,
For the soundin o his footfa this side the gowden gate,
God gie his grace to ilka ane what listens noo to me,
That we may a gang in gladness to our ain countree.
Mary Demarest