And drank afresh the morning breeze:
Tell me, you beautiful dark-eyed maid,
That's come across the Atlantic seas—
See you our winsome Sutherland flower,
Her cheek the tint of the summer rose,
Her gold-brown hair her only dower,
Her soul as white as Ben Clebrig's snows;
Blue as the ruffled loch her eyes,
Sweet her breath as the blossoming heather:
O do you think the whole world's skies