Heath flowers being a collection of poems, chiefly lyrical, written in the Highlands. By William Glen |
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[O! welcome ye breezes that blaw owre the mountains]
O! welcome ye breezes that blaw owre the mountains,
Your music is sweet 'mang the red heather bells;
And blest be your murmurs, ye clear highland fountains,
That gaily meander thro' Aberfoyle dells;
Ye rich lowland vallies awa', for ye never
Can bring true delight to a highlander's e'e,
Awa' wi' sic beauties for ever and ever,
'Se tir nam beann breachda bheiridh aitis do'm chri'.
Your music is sweet 'mang the red heather bells;
And blest be your murmurs, ye clear highland fountains,
That gaily meander thro' Aberfoyle dells;
Ye rich lowland vallies awa', for ye never
Can bring true delight to a highlander's e'e,
Awa' wi' sic beauties for ever and ever,
'Se tir nam beann breachda bheiridh aitis do'm chri'.
Saft blink the sun-beams on England's gay vallies,
An' red are the grapes at the husbandman's door,
While proudly owre a' swells the rich stately palace,
Whare Wealth scatters freely her glitterin' store;
But what are the grapes to the sweet heather blossom?
And say, is a Prince as a Highlander free?
Is a palace as pure as a Highlander's bosom?
'Se tir nam beann breachda bheiridh aitis do'm chri'.
An' red are the grapes at the husbandman's door,
While proudly owre a' swells the rich stately palace,
Whare Wealth scatters freely her glitterin' store;
But what are the grapes to the sweet heather blossom?
And say, is a Prince as a Highlander free?
Is a palace as pure as a Highlander's bosom?
'Se tir nam beann breachda bheiridh aitis do'm chri'.
34
And what is a Diadem, say, what is in it?
The wearer may be either foolish or trig;
I'd decline every crown for my raven-plum'd bonnet,
And spurn the rich robes for my dear Philabeg;
Nae streams are sae pure as the clear highland fountains,
The place of their murmurs is sweet unto me;
And dear as my soul are the Aberfoyle mountains,
'Se tir nam beann breachda bheiridh aitis do'm chri'.
The wearer may be either foolish or trig;
I'd decline every crown for my raven-plum'd bonnet,
And spurn the rich robes for my dear Philabeg;
Nae streams are sae pure as the clear highland fountains,
The place of their murmurs is sweet unto me;
And dear as my soul are the Aberfoyle mountains,
'Se tir nam beann breachda bheiridh aitis do'm chri'.
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