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!
SONG OF THE SCOTTISH EXILE.
Oh! the sunny peaches glow,
And the grapes in clusters blush;
And the cooling silver streams
From their sylvan fountains rush;
There is music in the grove,
And there 's fragrance on the gale;
But there 's nought so dear to me
As my own Highland vale.
Oh! the queen-like virgin rose,
Of the dew and sunlight born,
And the azure violet,
Spread their beauties to the morn;
So does the hyacinth,
And the lily pure and pale;
But I love the daisy best
In my own Highland vale.
Hark! hark! those thrilling notes!
'Tis the nightingale complains;
Oh! the soul of music breathes
In those more than plaintive strains;
But they 're not so dear to me
As the murmur of the rill,
And the bleating of the lambs
On my own Highland hill.
Oh! the flow'rets fair may glow,
And the juicy fruits may blush,
And the beauteous birds may sing,
And the crystal streamlets rush;
And the verdant meads may smile,
And the cloudless sun may beam,
But there 's nought beneath the skies
Like my own Highland home.