The simmer morn.
[J. Mitchell.—Air, "Green grows the rashes."]
Bright shines the simmer's morn,
Bright shines the simmer's morn;
Come let us view the flowery fields,
And hail wi' joy the waving coin.
Let those who think that pleasure lies
Within the magic glasses, O,
Come view with me the glorious skies,
And own themselves but asses, O.
Bright shines, &c.
Will dissipation's feeble gait
Wi' health's elastic step compare?
Will aching heads ne'er learn to hate
The haunts, where lurks the demon care?
Bright shines, &c.
Refreshing is the morning air,
The night is damp and dreary, O;
The fool who would the two compare,
May sleep till he is weary, O.
Bright shines, &c.
Then let us seek the flowery dells,
Where health is in attendance, O,
And from the pure, the crystal rills,
Drink to sweet independence, O.
Bright shines, &c.
The tavern's roar, then, let us shun,
If health or wealth we prize them, O;
The poor man's fortune is begun,
When he learns to despise them, O.
Bright shines, &c.
The Land o’ Cakes.
[John Imlah.—Air, "The Black Watch."]
The land o' cakes! the land o' cakes!
O! monie a blessing on it;
Fair fa' the land o' hills, o' lakes,
The bagpipe and the bonnet.
The countrie o' the kilted clans,
That cowed the Dane and Roman;
Whose sons ha'e still the hearts an' han's
To welcome friend or foeman.
Then swell the sang baith loud and lang,
Till the hills like aspens quiver;
An' fill ye up, and toast the cup,
The land o' cakes for ever.
Be scorn'd the Scot within whose heart
Nae patriot flame is burning;
Wha kent nae pain frae hame to part,
Nae joy when back returning.
Nae love for him in life shall yearn,
Nae tears in death deplore him;
He hath nae coronach nor cairn,
Wha shames the land that bore him.
Then swell the sang, &c.
Fair flower the gowans in our glens,
The heather on our mountains;
The blue bells deck our wizard dens,
An' kiss our sparkling fountains.
On knock an' knowe, the whin an' broom,
An' on the braes the breckan;
Not even Eden's flowers in bloom
Could sweeter blossoms reckon.
Then swell the sang, &c.
When flows our quegh within the glen,
Within the hall our glasses;
We'll toast auld Scotland's honest men,
Thrice o'er her bonnie lasses.
And deep we'll drink the Queen and Kirk,
Our country and our freedom;
Wi' broad claymore an' Highland dirk,
We're ready when they need them.
Then swell the sang, &c.
The Heather Bell.
[Poetry and Air by Dr. R. Spittal.]
Oh! deck thy hair wi' the heather bell,
The heather bell alone;
Leave roses to the Lowland maid,
The Lowland maid alone.
I've seen thee wi' the gay, gay rose,
And wi' the heather bell,—
I love you much with both, fair maid;
But wear the heather bell.
For the heather bell, the heather bell,
Which breathes the mountain air,
Is far more fit than roses gay
To deck thy flowing hair.
