And fly to the breezes of Scotland—
It's never too stuffy up there.
For weeks I have sat in pyjamas,
And found even these were de trop,
And envied the folk of Bahamas
Who dress in a feather or so;
But now there's an end to my grilling,
My Inferno's a thing of the past;
Hurrah! there's the whistle a-shrilling—
We are off to the Highlands at last!