And ill we sleep, sae sair we weep, But sweet and fast sleep they; And the mool that haps them roun' and laps them Is e'en their country's clay; But the land we tread that are not dead Is strange as night by day. Strange as night in a strange man's sight, Though fair as dawn it be: For what is here that a stranger's cheer Should yet wax blithe to see? The hills stand steep, the dells lie deep, The fields are green and gold: The hill-streams sing, and the hill-sides ring, As ours at home of old. But hills and flowers are nane of ours, And ours are oversea: And the kind strange land whereon we stand, It wotsna what were we Or ever we came, wi' scathe and shame, To try what end might be. Scathe, and shame, and a waefu' name, And a weary time and strange, Have they that seeing a weird for dreeing Can die, and cannot change. Shame and scorn may we thole that mourn, Though sair be they to dree: But ill may we bide the thoughts we hide, Mair keen than wind and sea. Ill may we thole the night's watches, And ill the weary day: And the dreams that keep the gates of sleep, A waefu' gift gie they; For the sangs they sing us, the sights they bring us, The morn blaws all away. On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw, The burn rins blithe and fain: There's nought wi' me I wadna gie To look thereon again. On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide; There sounds nae hunting-horn That rings sae sweet as the winds that beat Round banks where Tyne is born. The Wansbeck sings with all her springs, The bents and braes give ear; But the wood that rings wi' the sang she sings I may not see nor hear; For far and far thae blithe burns are, And strange is a' thing near. The light there lightens, the day there brightens, The loud wind there lives free: Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by me That I wad hear or see. But O gin I were there again, Afar ayont the faem, Cauld and dead in the sweet saft bed That haps my sires at hame! We'll see nae mair the sea-banks fair, And the sweet grey gleaming sky, And the lordly strand of Northumberland, And the goodly towers thereby: And none shall know but the winds that blow The graves wherein we lie. THE TYNESIDE WIDOW There's mony a man loves land and life, Loves life and land and fee; And mony a man loves fair women, But never a man loves me, my love, But never a man loves me. O weel and weel for a' lovers, I wot weel may they be; And weel and weel for a' fair maidens, But aye mair woe for me, my love, But aye mair woe for me.