On thy banks, classic Tweed, still my fancy shall wander,
Though far from the Land of the Thistle and thee,
To follow thy course to its latest meander,
The place of my birth where thou meetest the sea.
‘Though the memory of those early friendships did cherish,
Will fade and is fading, thou still art the same,
For though dear to remembrance young feelings must perish
And the friends of our youth will exist but in name.
But there is a language in thee, sweeping river,
A voice in the woodlands that shadow thy braes,
A home and a heart by thy side that shall ever
Be one with existence, be dear to my eyes.
‘Midst the daydream of boyhood, ere glowing ambition
Had sung the fond thrilling of beauty and love,
Thy banks were my study – my only tuition
The sounds of thy waters, the coo of thy dove.
Stream of maturity, can I forget thee
When my birthplace’s threshold thy waters will lap?
Forget thee! When Nature’s omnipotent set thee
To wash the green sod by my forefather’s grave?
Yet if these were forgot thou art witness with heaven
Of my vow on the breath of thy murmurs conveyed,
When, pure as the fountain, confiding was given
To me the fond heart of my Favourite Maid.
