David Vedder

Song of the Scottish Exile

Oh! the sunny peaches glow,
  And the grapes in clusters blush;
And the cooling silver streams
  From their sylvan fountains rush;
There is music in the grove,
  And there 's fragrance on the gale;
But there 's nought so dear to me
  As my own Highland vale.

Oh! the queen-like virgin rose,
  Of the dew and sunlight born,
And the azure violet,
  Spread their beauties to the morn;
So does the hyacinth,
  And the lily pure and pale;
But I love the daisy best
  In my own Highland vale.

Hark! hark! those thrilling notes!
  'Tis the nightingale complains;
Oh! the soul of music breathes
  In those more than plaintive strains;
But they 're not so dear to me
  As the murmur of the rill,
And the bleating of the lambs
  On my own Highland hill.

Oh! the flow'rets fair may glow,
  And the juicy fruits may blush,
And the beauteous birds may sing,
  And the crystal streamlets rush;
And the verdant meads may smile,
  And the cloudless sun may beam,
But there 's nought beneath the skies
  Like my own Highland home.