The Hills of the Highlands

Will ye go to the Highlands, my Mary, And visit our haughs and our glens? There's beauty 'mang hills o' the Highlands, The braw lawlan' lassie ne'er kens.

Tis true we have few cowslips or roses, Nae lilies grow wild on the lee; But the heather its sweet scent discloses, And the daisy's as sweet to the e'e.

See yon far heathy hills, whar they're risin', Whose summits are shaded wi blue; There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin', Or feeding their fawns, love, for you.

There the loud roaring floods they are fallin', By crags that are furrow'd and grey; To her young there the eagle is callin'. Or gazin' afar for her pray.

Or low by the birks on the burnie, Whare the goat wi' her younglin's doth rest; There oft I would lead thee, my Mary, Whare the black-bird has builded her nest.

Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin' When shepherds return frae the hill, Around by the banks o' Loch Lomon', While bagpipes are soundin' sae shrill

Right sweet is the low-setting sun-beam, On the lake's bosom quiv'ring seen; But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary, And kinder the blinks o' her een.