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Tho’ simple are the joys
the brave Highlander possesses,
Yet he feels no annoys,
for he fears no distresses:
When the rude wintry win’
idly raves round his dwelling,
And the roar of the linn
on the night-breeze is swelling,
Then so merrily he’ll sing,
as the storm rattles o’er him,
To the dear sheeling ring,
wi’ the light lilting jorum.
Now the summer is in prime,
wi’ the flow’rs richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
a’ the moorlands perfuming;
To our dear native scenes
let us journey together,
Where glad innocence reigns,
‘mang the braes o’ Balquither.
F I N I S.
—
Falkirk— T, Johnston, Printer.
