There's meadows in Lanark and mountains in Skye.
And pastures in Hielands and Lowlands forbye:
But there's nae greater luck that the heart could desire
Than to herd the fine cattle in Bonnie Strathyre.
O, it's up in the morn and awa' to the hill,
When the lang simmer days are sae warm and sae still
Till the peak o' Ben Voirlich is girdled wi' fire,
And the evenin' fa's gently on bonnie Strathyre.
Then there's mirth in the sheiling and love in my breast,
When the sun is gane doun and the kye are at rest:
For there's mony a prince wad be proud to aspire
To my winsome wee Maggie, the pride o Strathyre.
Her lips are like rowans in ripe simmer seen.
And mild as the starlight the glint o' her e'en:
Far sweeter her breath than the scent o' the briar,
And her voice is sweet music in bonnie Strathyre.
Set Flora by Colin, and Maggie by me,
And we'll dance to the pipes swellin' loudly and free,
Till the moon in the heavens climbing higher and higher
Bids us sleep on fresh brackens in bonnie Strathyre.
Though some in the touns o' the Lawlands seek fame
And some will gang sodgerin' far from their hame;
Yet I'll aye herd my cattle, and bigg my ain byre.
And love my ain Maggie in bonnie Strathyre.
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