Хью Макдональд (Hugh MacDonald)

My Ain Hearthstane

'TIS sweet, when smiling Simmer flings her mantle o'er the lea,
When scented flow'rs unfold their bloom and birds are a' in glee,
To wander wi' the wimplim burn, or 'mang the woods alane;
But sweeter, dearer to the heart, our ain hearthstane.

When gloamin' spreads out-owre the scene her dewy wings o' grey,
And brings the ploughman frae the furr', the shepherd frae the brae,
How sweet the winsome wifie's smile the prattlin o' the wean,
That welcome weary labour to his ain hearthstane.

My hame is but a lowly beild, a wee bit but and ben,
A kame into a crooet byke that grandeur disna ken;
Yet pride within her lofty wa's amid her menial train,
Micht envy me the treasures of my ain hearthstane.

Of gowd or gear I mauna speak; fause fortune's still my fae;
She's grudg'd me e'en the timmer spoon -- the breeks o' hodden grey;
Our kail she aye sends through the reek, and clean we pike the bane;
Yet love makes licht o' poortith at my ain hearthstane.

Owre weel I love, wi' genial friends, a social nicht o' glee,
When sang and crack around the bowl gar a' life's shadows flee;
But bicker-joys are fleeting a', and sune the heart is fain
To toddle hame repentant to its ain hearthstane.

There's jags on ilka path o' life, in ilka cup there's ga';
But poortith 'bides the sairest dunts on mortal pows that fa';
For lowly toil meets cankert words and looks o' sour disdain,
And Worth maun snool to screen frae Want her ain hearthstane.

We've a' our ain bit weird to dree, our ain bit wark to dae,
And some maun hurkle doon the howe, while ithers speel the brae;
But in the dub or on the dyke, ye'll find its a' in vain
To look for lasting pleasure aff your ain hearthstane.

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