There’s no a muir in my ain land but’s fu’ o’ sang the day,
Wi’ the whaup, and the gowden plover, and the lintie upon the brae.
The birk in the glen is springin’, the rowan-tree in the shaw,
And every burn is rinnin’ wild wi’ the meltin’ o’ the snaw.
The wee white cluds in the blue lift are hurryin’ light and free,
Their shadows fleein’ on the hills, where I, too, fain wad be;
The wind frae the west is blawin’, and wi’ it seems to bear
The scent o’ the thyme and gowan thro’ a’ the caller air.
The herd doon the hillside’s linkin’. O licht his heart may be
Whose step is on the heather, his glance ower muir and lea!
On the Moss are the wild ducks gatherin’, whar the pules like diamonds lie,
And far up soar the wild geese, wi’ weird, unyirdly cry.
In mony a neuk the primrose lies hid frae stranger een,
An’ the broom on the knowes is wavin’ wi’ its cludin o’ gowd and green;
Ower the first green sprigs o’ heather, the muir-fowl faulds his wing,
And there’s nought but joy in my ain land at the comin’ o’ the Spring!