“Hic tibi copia
Manabit ad plenum benigno
Ruris honorum opulenta cornu.”
NOO Nature’s wauken’d fra her trance,
An’ sunbeams owre Lochleven glance,
An’ soothlan’ winds that blaw fra France
Bring soothlan’ weather,
An’ lambs like fairy pownies prance
Amang the heather.
Noo doun the rig the sawer swings,
An’ Jock ahint the harrow sings;
Noo aff his plaid the shepherd flings
An’ cracks to Rover,
While a’ the open upland rings
Wi’ whaup and plover.
This mornin’ happy man is he
That on the Ochils rangin’ free
Can thro’ the blue lift send his ee
Owre to the Lomon’,
An’ a’ the pleasant prospect see
An’ envy no man.
That happy man – he’s no’ to seek!
That happy man – ye hear him speak!
He stands upon an Ochil peak
An’ looks wi’ pity
On you that dwall amang the reek
Doun i’ the city.
Nae doot it’s there the race is run
For walth an’ honours, but the fun
‘S to them that win, an’ tho’ ye’ve won
Ye’re apt to tine them;
The glory o’ the settin’ sun
‘Ill far ootshine them!
Come leave awhile the stoory toun,
The mill-horse track, the endless roun’,
The jaded sicht, the jarrin’ soun’,
The haste an’ hurry,
An’ look fra pastoral summits doun
Here a’ your griefs to grund ‘ill fa’
Like winter’s blanket aff a wa’
When saft airs owre Damíat blaw
An’ skies are clearin’,
An’ yellow whin-blumes thro’ the snaw
Are blithely peerin’.
Or are ye shilpit, pale, and seeck?
Come up the brae an’ bide a week,
An’ drink the pure air at the peak
That’s nearest heaven,
An’ get a howp in ilka cheek
O’ halesome livin’.
For what’s the worth o’ warld’s gain
Unless the joys o’ health remain?
Yet there are folk that strive, an’ strain
Their strength unduly –
Wi’ puir return for a’ their pain,
To speak it truly.
Note. – Damíat is the loftiest height of the Ochil range. The Lomonds are a well-known range near Lochleven.