6
While the lads o’ the ſouth
Toil for bare war’ly treaſure,
To the lads o’ the north
Ev’ry day brings its pleaſure;
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 ſhieling 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’ Balquhither.
Loudon’s bonny Woods and Braes.
Loudon’s bonny woods and braes,
I maun lea’e them a’, laſſie;
Wha can thole, when Britain’s faes
Would gi’e Britons law, laſſie?
