The Book of Scottish Song/The Hills of the Highlan's

The Hills of the Highlan’s.

[Nicholson.—Tune, "Ewe Buchts, Marion."]

Will ye go to the Highlan's, my Mary,
And visit our haughs and our glens?
There's beauty 'mang hills o' the Highlan's
The braw lawlan' lassie ne'er kens.

'Tis true we've few cowslips or roses,
Nae lilies grow wild on the lee;
But 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 summits are shaded wi' blue;
There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin',
Or feedin' 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 prey.

Or low, by the birks on the burnie,
Whar the goat wi' her younglin's doth rest,
There oft I would lead thee my Mary,
Whar the blackbird has builded her nest.

Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin',
Whan the shepherds return frae the hill,
Aroun' 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'rin' seen;
But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary,
And kinder the blinks o' her een.

Thy looks would gar simmer seem sweeter,
An' cheer winter's bare dreary gloom;
With thee every joy is completer,
While true love around us should bloom.

The south'ren, in a' his politeness,
His airs and his grandeur may shine;
Our hills boast o' mair true discreetness,
An' his love is not equal to mine.

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