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 While the lads o’ the south Toil for bare war’ly pleasure, To the o’ the north Ev’ry day brings its pleasure, Tho’ are the joys The brave Highlander possesses, he feels no annoys, For he fears no distresses.

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, Till the dear shieling ring, Wi’ the lilting jorum.

the is in prime, Wi’ flowers richly blooming, And the wild moutain thyme A’ moorlands perfuming, To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad Innocence reigns, ’Mang the braes o’ Balquhither.