Could it be this?

Oh, wae on the gowd wi' its glamour beguilin'
The bravest frae Scotia across the saut sea,
An' wae on Dame Fortune, sae fause wi' her smilin',
For cauld is the pleasure at best she can gie.
But aye tae the heart that is leal mair endearin'
A message o' love frae the land far awa,
When aften it comes like a sun-blink sac cheerin',
A wee sprig o' heather sac withered and sma'.

The emigrant dreams o' his hame in the gloamin'
An' wanders in fancy some wild glen sac green;
His thochts are the purest, xvi' memory, when roamin'
The land where the bluebell and thistle are seen.
An' aften the gloom that enshrouds him brings beamin';
Affection's sweet token dispellin' it a' -
As brichtly in darkness the starnie is gleamin';
A sprig o' his ain native heather sac sma'.

The burnie that's glidin' sac sweetly an' sinin'
Awa' frae its hame in the mountain sac hie.
Ne'er kens in its mirth that the future is bringin'
The tempest an' roar o' the dark-tossin' sea;
An' sac wi' the lad owre the ocean careerin'
Like strains frae the harp are the win's when they blaw;
Till wearit—the bricht sun o' hope disappearin'
He langs for a tuft o' heather sac sma'.