Far fray my aim, I wander, But still my thoughts return,
Till my aim fork over yonder, In the shielding by the burn.
I see that close the angle, And the mist up in the bray,
And joy in sadness mingle, As I list some old good way.
And it's so, when I'm longing for my aim fork,
Though they be but lonely, pale and playful.
I am far across the sea, But my head will ever be,
At fame and deed, old Scotland, With my aim fork.
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