This text comes from The Book of Scottish Song, edited by Alexander Whitelaw, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
See, the city enshrouded in pestilent smoke,
Not a health-breeze is there to be found;
It lies as if still under winter's dark yoke,
While the spring decks the country around.
That riches are gain'd in the city—'tis true;—
But this is the young month of May—
If I stay to scrape wealth, a grave I'll get too;—
Away to the mountains, away!
Who treads on the heather will ne'er feel the gout,
Though to health he has been a wild sinner;
Nor die of a surfeit, though after a bout
With some chief at a true highland dinner.
The clear highland spring, mii'd with pure mountain dew,
Is a drink fit for emperors, they say;
Thus we've health and high pleasure for ever in view—
Away to the mountains, away!
In the land of the hills sits the goddess of health,
Enthroned in sublimest of grandeur;
The breeze, lake, and mountain are stored with her wealth,
But she's lonely in midst of her splendour.
Her votaries fly to her, 'neath the impulse of fear;
When she smiles, then no longer they stay;
But I will adore her for many a year—
Away to the mountains, away!