Faur frae Scotland tho’ I be,
Gude St Andra, succour me.
Gie me this an’ ilka day,
Will for wark, an’ spunk for play.

Whiles my sorrow has nae name,
Whiles I’m seek and sair for hame;
Ilka Yule ma thochts will turn
Tae the hoose abune the burn,
Whaur I could slock my fevered drouth
Wi’ caller watter in my mooth.

Gude St Andra let me see
A vision o’ my ain countree;
Gar its memory keep me here
Blithe through a’ the comin’ year;
Mak this content me wi’ my lot –
I MICHT NO HAE BEEN BORN A SCOT.
Let the thocht o’ sic a fate
Keep me eident, sune an’ late.
Gude St Andra, succour me,
Faur frae Scotland tho’ I be.


Kate Y. A. Bone (1897-1986)

Selected by the Scottish Poetry Library and reproduced with the permission of Reinold Gayre.