YON wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide,
That nurse in their bosom the youth o the Clyde,
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro the heather to feed,
And the shepherd tends his flock as he pipes on his reed.
Not Gowries rich valley, nor Forths sunny shores,
To me hae the charms oyon wild, mossy moors;
For there, by a lanely, sequesterèd stream,
Besides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.
Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path,
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath;
For there, wi my lassie, the day lang I rove,
While oer us unheeded flie the swift hours olove.
She is not the fairest, altho she is fair;
O nice education but sma is her share;
Her parentage humble as humble can be;
But I loe the dear lassie because she loes me.
To Beauty what man but maun yield him a prize,
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs?
And when wit and refinement hae polishd her darts,
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts.
But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond-sparkling ee,
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me;
And the heart beating love as Im claspd in her arms,
O, these are my lassies all-conquering charms!
