The poetical works of William Nicholson :: :: University of Virginia Library

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
That Lassie i' Lowlands ne'er kens.

'Tis true we've few cowslips or roses,
Nae lilies grow wild on the lea;
But the heather its sweet scent discloses,
And the daisy's as sweet to the e'e.

See yon far heathy hills, where they're risin',
Whose summits are shaded wi' blue;
There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin',
Or feedin' their fawns, love, for you.

They're the scenes o' my youth, my dear Mary,
Where wi' solit'ry pleasure I've strayed;
There my forefathers fought in their glory,
Wi' their chieftains they conquered or died.

There the loud roarin' floods they are fallin',
By crags that are furrowed and grey;
To her young there the eagle is callin',
Or gazin' afar for her prey.

The aik, by his ain native fountain,
His arms out at random hath cast;
And the high towerin' fir on the mountain,
That nods to the sound o' the blast.

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Or low by the birks on the burnie,
Where the goat wi' her younglin's doth rest;
There oft I would lead thee, my Mary,
Where the blackbird is building her nest.

Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin',
When 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,
That points owre the quivering stream,
But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary,
And kinder the blinks o' her een.

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

But alas! for my cabin it's lowly,
And few are my flocks and my kye;
Yet my bosom to thee beats aye truly,
'Tis what titles or gowd ne'er could buy.

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