THE sun rises bright in France,
And fair sets he;
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!