And brightly glanced the rills.
That spring amang the hills,
'And ca' the merrie mills
In my ain dear land.
O bonnie are the hows, &c.
Bat now I canna see
The lammies on the lea,
Nor hear the heather bee
On this far, far, strand;
I see nae father's ha',
Nor burnie's water-fa',
But wander far awa'
Frae my air dear land.
O bonnie are the hows, &c.
But blythely will I bide,
Whate'er may yet betide,
When ane is by my side
On this far, far, strand
My Jean will soon be here
My waefu' heart to cheer,
And dry the fa'ing tear
For our ain dear land.
O bonnie are the hows, &c.
Scotland's Hills.
[First published in the Edinburgh Literary Gazette. Set to Music by R. A. Smith.]
Oh! these are not my country's hills,
Though they look bright and fair;
Though flowers deck their verdant sides,
The heather blooms not there.
Let me behold the mountains steep,
And wild deer roaming free,
The heathy glen, the ravine deep:
Oh, Scotland's hills for me!
The rose through all this garden land,
May shed its rich perfume;
But I would rather wander 'mong,
My country's bonnie broom.
There sings the shepherd on the hill,
The ploughman on the lea;
There lives my blythesome mountain maid:
Oh, Scotland's hills for me!
In southern climes the radiant sun
A brighter light displays;
But I love best his milder beams
That shine on Scotland's braes.
Then, dear romantic native land,
If e'er I roam from thee,
I'll ne'er forget the cheering lay,
Oh, Scotland's hills for me!
Kail brose of Old Scotland.
[Written, according to Mr. Peter Buchan, by Alex. Watson, merchant tailor in Aberdeen, and at one time deacon of the incorporated trades there. It was composed sometime during the American war of independence.]
When our ancient forefathers agreed wi' the laird,
For a spot o' good ground for to be a kail-yard,
It was to the brose that they had the regard;
O! the kail brose of auld Scotland;
And O! for the Scottish kail brose.
When Fergus, the first of our kings I suppose,
At the head of his nobles had vanquish'd his foes,
Before they began they had dined upon brose.
O! the kail brose, &c.
Then our sodgers were drest in their kilts paid short hose,
With bonnet and belt which their dress did compose,
With a bag of oatmeal on their back to make brose.
O! the kail brose, &c.
In our free early ages a Scotsman could dine
Without English roast beef, or famous French wine,
Kail brose, if weel made, he always thought fine.
O! the kail brose, &c.
At our annual election of bailies or mayor,
Nae kickshaws or puddings or tarts were seen there,
A dish of kail brose was the favourite fare.
O! the kail brose, &c.
It has been our favourite dish all along,
It our ladies makes beauties, our gentlemen strong,
When moderately used, it our life does prolong.
O! the kail brose, &c.
While thus we can live, we dread no kind of foes —
Should any invade us, we'll twist up their nose,
And soon make them feel the true virtue of brose.
O! the kail brose, &c.
