Hail, ancient friends! with ardour fain
I come to tread your heath again,
To climb each crag and flowery brae,
To muse where living streamlets play,
To gaze upon the changing skies
That flood your heights with orient dyes,
To dream, while lonely Nature stills
Each breath, each sound, on Pentland Hills.

Yet whence those sounds that stir my soul,
Those liquid tones that trembling roll?
Sweet as the skylark's matin song
On May's young breath they float along.
They tell of bleating lambs and sheep,
Of brawling torrents foaming deep;
They murmur of melodious rills,
Hark! 'tis the voice of Pentland Hills.

Those airy tones that lightly float,
Seem bursting from the linnet's throat;
Anon, afar the shy cuckoo
Soothes with his strain the lone curlew;
The grasshopper, with elfin drum,
Beats time unto the wild bee's hum;
And, with a low sweet music, fills
Each fairy nook of Pentland Hills.

But lo! the cadence louder swells—
The chimes of fair Edina's bells,
Far in the distance, wake the ear;
Anon they burst in fulness near,
And o'er grey crag and valley green,
Each tiny leaf is dancing seen,
And every streamlet gurgling trills
In joy amid the Pentland Hills.

Yet ah! these tones, so full, so deep,
Rouse Mem'ry from her dreamy sleep;
We see the friends of other days,
Who with us trode these broomy braes;
With pensive air they seem to stray
Along the mountain's summit grey,
And, while remembrance glowing thrills,
In clouds they glide o'er Pentland Hills.