Heaving of the Lead (1825)/The lass o' Arranteenie

by Robert Tannahill

For other versions of this work, see The Lass of Arranteenie.

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THE LASS OF ARRANTEENIE.

Forlorn, amang the Highland hills,
'Midst nature’s wildest grandeur,
By rocky dens, and woody glens,
With weary steps I wander.
The langsome way, the darksome day,
The mountain mist so rainy,
Are nought to me when gaun to thee,
Sweet Lass o’ Arranteenie!

Yon messy rose-bud down the howe,
Just op'ning fresh and bonny,
Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough,
An's scarcely seen by ony;
Sae, sweet amidst her native hills,
Obscurely blooms my Jeanie,
Mair fair and gay than rosy May,
The flow'r o' Arranteenie.

Now from the mountain's lofty brow
I view the distant ocean;
There av'rice guides the bounding prow
Ambition courts promotion.
Let Fortune pour her golden store,
Her laurel'd favours many;
Gie me but this, my soul's first wish,
The Lass o’ Arranteenie.