Роберт Бернс (Robert Burns)

The Heather Was Blooming

THE heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn,
Our lads gaed a-hunting, ae day at the dawn,
O’er moors and o’er mosses and mony a glen;
At length they discover’d a bonnie moor-hen.

  I red you beware at the hunting, young men;
  I red you beware at the hunting, young men;
  Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring,
  But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen.

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather-bells,
Her colours betray’d her on yon mossy fells;
Her plumage outlustred the pride o’ the spring,
And O! as she wanton’d gay on the wing.

Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep’d o’er the hill,
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill:
He levell’d his rays where she baak’d on the brae-
His rays were outshone, and but mark’d where she lay.

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill,
The best of our lads wi’ the best o’ their skill;
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight,
Then whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight.

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