The Sun rises bright in France
And fair sets he;
But he has tint the blythe blink he had
In my ain countree.
But he has tint the blythe blink he had
In my ain countree.
O, it 's nae my ain ruin
That saddens aye my e'e,
But the dear Marie I left behin'
Wi' sweet bairnies three.
My lanely hearth burn'd bonnie,
And smiled my ain Marie;
I've left a' my heart behin'
In my ain countree.
The bud comes back to summer,
And the blossom to the bee;
But I'll win back, O never,
To my ain countree.
O, I am leal to high Heaven,
Where soon I hope to be,
An' there I'll meet ye a' soon
Frae my ain countree!