Classic Poem

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 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.

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

There the loud roarin' 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.

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

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

Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin',
Whan 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 quiv'rin' bosom seen;
But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary,
And kinder the blinks o'her her een.

Thy looks wou'd gar simmer seem sweeter,
An' cheer winter's bare dreary gloom;
With thee ev'ry joy is completer,
While true love around us shou'd bloom.

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

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.