Now the beams of May morn
On the mountains are streaming,
And the dews on the corn
Are like diamond-drops gleaming;
And the birds from the bowers
Are in gladness ascending;
And the breath of sweet flowers
With the zephyrs is blending.
And the rose-linnet's thrill,
Overflowing with gladness,
And the wood-pigeon's bill,
Though their notes seem of sadness;
And the jessamine rich
Its soft tendrils is shooting,
From pear and from peach
The bright blossoms are sprouting.
And the lambs on the lea
Are in playfulness bounding,
And the voice of the sea
Is in harmony sounding;
And the streamlet on high
In the morning beam dances,
For all Nature is joy
As sweet summer advances.
Then, my Mary, let 's stray
Where the wild-flowers are glowing,
By the banks of the Tay
In its melody flowing;
Thou shalt bathe in May-dew,
Like a sweet mountain blossom,
For 'tis bright like thy brow,
And 'tis pure as thy bosom!