The Highlander's Home Sickness

Easy is my pillow press'd
But, oh! I cannot, cannot rest;
Northwards do the shrill winds blow--
Thither do my musings go!

Better far with thee in groves,
Where the young deers sportive roam,
Than where, counting cattle droves,
I must sickly sigh for home.
Great the love I bear for her
Where the north winds wander free,
Sportive, kindly is her air,
Pride and folly none hath she!

Were I hiding from my foes,
Aye, though fifty men were near,
I should find concealment close
In the shieling of my dear.
Beauty's daughter! oh, to see
Days when homewards I 'll repair--
Joyful time to thee and me--
Fair girl with the waving hair!

Glorious all for hunting then,
The rocky ridge, the hill, the fern;
Sweet to drag the deer that 's slain
Downwards by the piper's cairn!
By the west field 'twas I told
My love, with parting on my tongue;
Long she 'll linger in that fold,
With the kine assembled long!

Dear to me the woods I know,
Far from Crieff my musings are;
Still with sheep my memories go,
On our heath of knolls afar:
Oh, for red-streak'd rocks so lone!
Where, in spring, the young fawns leap,
And the crags where winds have blown--
Cheaply I should find my sleep.