O these are not my country's hills,
Though they seem bright and fair;
Though flow'rets deck their verdant sides,
The heather blooms not there.
Let me behold the mountain steep,
And wild deer roaming free--
The heathy glen, the ravine deep--
O Scotland's hills for me!
The rose, through all this garden-land,
May shed its rich perfume,
But I would rather wander 'mong
My country's bonnie broom.
There sings the shepherd on the hill,
The ploughman on the lea;
There lives my blithesome mountain maid,
O Scotland's hills for me!
The throstle and the nightingale
May warble sweeter strains
Than thrills at lovely gloaming hour
O'er Scotland's daisied plains;
Give me the merle's mellow note,
The linnet's liquid lay;
The laverocks on the roseate cloud--
O Scotland's hills for me!
And I would rather roam beneath
Thy scowling winter skies,
Than listlessly attune my lyre
Where sun-bright flowers arise.
The baron's hall, the peasant's cot
Protect alike the free;
The tyrant dies who breathes thine air;
O Scotland's hills for me!