My Highland Vale

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 is fragrance in the gale,

But there's nought sae 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 flowerets 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 hame!