Page:Braes of Balquither.pdf/3

 When the rude wintry win’ Idly raves round his dwelling, And the roar of the linn, On the night breeze is swelling, Then so merrily he’ll sing, As the storm rattles o’er him, To the dear sheeling ring, Wi’ the light lilting jorum.

Now the summer is in prime, Wi’ the flow’rs 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 of Balquither.

O Love is the saul of a neat Irishman, He loves all the lovely, loves all that he can, With his Sprig of Shilela and Shamrock so green. His heart is good-humour’d ’tis honest and sound, No malice or hatred is there to be found: He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights,