Heath flowers being a collection of poems, chiefly lyrical, written in the Highlands. By William Glen |
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THE BRAES OF ABERFOYLE. |
 | Heath flowers |  |
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THE BRAES OF ABERFOYLE.
O! happy be yon bonny vale, sae gladsome to the e'e,
But a' its sweets, and tender joys, hae lang since fled frae me!
The baumy breath o' spring is nought, in vain is summer's smile,
Since my dear Donald left his love, and the braes o' Aberfoyle.
But a' its sweets, and tender joys, hae lang since fled frae me!
The baumy breath o' spring is nought, in vain is summer's smile,
Since my dear Donald left his love, and the braes o' Aberfoyle.
O! merry are the wee bit birds in yonder hazel shaw,
They warble sweet and cheerily, their mates are no awa';
The swallow, twittering frae the rock in rapid flight the while,
Skims the calm bosom o' the Loch 'mang the braes o' Aberfoyle.
They warble sweet and cheerily, their mates are no awa';
The swallow, twittering frae the rock in rapid flight the while,
Skims the calm bosom o' the Loch 'mang the braes o' Aberfoyle.
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High on this lofty mountain I view the heather bell,
And see the little busy bee wi' rapture on it dwell;
O happy bee! when ye're releast frae burnin' summer's toil,
Ye'll pass the winter nights wi' joy 'mang the braes o' Aberfoyle.
And see the little busy bee wi' rapture on it dwell;
O happy bee! when ye're releast frae burnin' summer's toil,
Ye'll pass the winter nights wi' joy 'mang the braes o' Aberfoyle.
The flowers are springing on the bank, the daisies on the lea,
Its fragrance on the mountain-tap the heath-bell scatters free;
But, to the lanely lover, in vain's the floweret's spoil,
An' dreary are the bonny straths 'mang the braes o' Aberfoyle.
Its fragrance on the mountain-tap the heath-bell scatters free;
But, to the lanely lover, in vain's the floweret's spoil,
An' dreary are the bonny straths 'mang the braes o' Aberfoyle.
Blaw upon Donald's ship ye win's, blaw wi' a steady gale,
An' wi' a swift an' favouring breeze, O! swell out every sail,
The very thought “he'll sune be here,” should my lorn thoughts beguile,
O! when he comes, I will be blest 'mang the braes o' Aberfoyle.
An' wi' a swift an' favouring breeze, O! swell out every sail,
The very thought “he'll sune be here,” should my lorn thoughts beguile,
O! when he comes, I will be blest 'mang the braes o' Aberfoyle.
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