Bonny Barbara Allan (1823)/The hills of the Highlands

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THE HILLS OF THE HIGHLANDS.

Will ye go to the Highlands, my Mary,
⁠And vist 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;
Bur 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 summats 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.