GONE were but the winter cold,
And gone were but the snow,
I could sleep in the wild woods
Where primroses blow.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast-
THE sun rises bright in France,
And fair sets he;
But he has tint the blythe blink he had
In my ain countree.
Gane were but the winter cauld,
And gane were but the snaw,
I could sleep in the wild woods,
Where primroses blaw.