Give the swains of Italia
'Mong myrtles to rove,
Give the proud, sullen Spaniard
His bright orange grove;
Give gold-sanded streams
To the sons of Chili,
But, oh! give the hills
Of the heather to me.
The hills where the hunter
Oft soundeth his horn,
Where sweetest the skylark
Awakens the morn;
The gray cliff, the blue lake,
The stream's dashing glee,
Endear the red hills
Of the heather to me.
There Health, rosy virgin,
For ever doth dwell;
There Love fondly whispers
To Beauty his tale;
There Freedom's own darling!
The Gael, lives free,
Then, oh! give the hills
Of the heather to me.