The Heathy Hills.
[Mitchell.—Air, "Thou bonnie wood of Craigie lea."]
O! were I on the heathy hills,
That rise aboon the Stanley lea;
And wand’ring by the crystal rills,
Where, Mary, first I courted thee:
There mem'ry would recal the hours,
I aft would spend at e'ening's fa',
To twine for thee a wreath o' flowers,
The flowers o' Caledonia.
Here golden groves in every vale,
Attract the stranger's wondering eye,
And gorgeous flowers perfume the gale,
Which wantons through a cloudless sky.
But what's to me the richest flowers,
That ever graced an Indian isle,
If discontent pervade its bowers,
And blight youth's unsuspicious smile?
Will golden groves or glowing skies,
The heart's affections e'er enshrine,
If gentle love the charm denies,
Which beams in my love's face divine?
Then, Scotland, though thy heathy hills,
Aft lie beneath a sheet o' snaw;
In fancy I still seek the rills,
That glide near Stanley's castle wa'.