The Hills In The Hielands Poem by Alexander Anderson

The hills in the Hielands are bonnie,
Wi' the licht an' the shadow at play;
An' the winds that mak' redder the heather
Far up on the cliff an' the brae.
The white clouds are floatin' abune them,
Like snawdrifts that never can fa',
The hills in the Hielands are bonnie,
The hills in the Hielands are braw!


The streets o' the city grow weary
For want o' the glint an' the sheen;
An' the wast wind has never a murmur
O' woods that are wavin' wi' green:
But O, for the bound o' the red deer,
An' the curlew that bugles to a';
The hills in the Hielands are bonnie,
The hills in the Hielands are braw.


I sigh for the roar o' the river
Far down in the depths o' the glen,
The rush an' the whirr o' the blackcock
As he springs frae the side o' the ben;
For the sweep o' the sky-cleavin' eagle,
Whose wings are the bounds o' his law—
The hills in the Hielands are bonnie,
The hills in the Hielands are braw.


Then, O, to be up in the Hielands,
Where the winds draw not bridle nor stay;
Where the forests are tossing their banners,
An' the breckans are thick on the brae.
Where the loch lies in shadow or sunshine,
Or leaps to the winds as they blaw;
The hills in the Hielands are bonnie,
The hills in the Hielands are braw.