When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn On the night breeze is swelling, So merrily we'll sing, As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the dear shieling ring Wi' the light lilting chorus. Now the summer's in prime Wi' the flowers richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme A' the moorlands perfuming: To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom! And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie; For guileless simplicity marks her its ain: And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening; Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen: Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. ALFRED TENNYSON