Words: , 1861.

Music: , 1864; har­mo­nized by .

Many years ago John Mac­duff and his young bride left Scot­land on a sail­ing ves­sel for Amer­i­ca, there to seek their for­tune. Af­ter tar­ry­ing a few weeks in New York they went on West, where they were suc­cess­ful in ac­cum­u­lat­ing a good com­pe­tence. By and by the wife’s health be­gan to fail. The anx­ious hus­band said that he feared she was home­sick.

“John,” she replied, “I am wear­y­ing for my ain count­rie; will you not take me to the sea, that I may see the ships sail­ing to the home­land once more?”

Her hus­band’s heart was moved with com­pass­ion. In a few weeks he sold their West­ern home and took his wife East to a plea­sant lit­tle cot­tage by the sea, whose fur­ther shore broke on the rocks that line the coast of Scot­land. She would oft­en sit and gaze wist­ful­ly at the ships sail­ing from the bay, one af­ter ano­ther dis­ap­pear­ing be­low the ho­riz­on on their way to her ain count­rie. Al­though she ut­tered no com­plaint, it was ev­i­dent that she was slow­ly pin­ing away. John was afraid that she would die in a for­eign land; and as an ef­fort to save her he sold his New Eng­land home, and took her back across the ocean. She was speed­i­ly re­cov­ered by the keen mount­ain air, the sight of pur­ple hea­ther, nod­ding blue­bells, and hedge­rows white with frag­rant haw­thorn blos­soms in bon­nie Scot­land, her own dear na­tive land. To her it was home. And there is no sweet­er word in any lang­uage than home!
…
At an ear­ly age [Mary Dem­a­rest] lost her mo­ther and was left in charge of a Scot­tish nurse, from whom she learned some­thing of the Scot­tish di­a­lect. And her grand­fa­ther, a na­tive of Scot­land, had oft­en sung lit­tle Ma­ry to sleep with Scot­tish lull­a­bies…At the age of 23, Mary Lee wrote this im­mor­tal po­em, af­ter hear­ing the sto­ry of John Mac­duff and his wife, and pub­lished it first in “The New York Ob­serv­er.”