HEATHER LAYS. 



On the Hills 



I love the hills, the lonely hills, 



Where never a sound is heard, 

 Save the soft, sad songs of the purling rills, 

 Or the cry of a wandering bird; 

 O! there; O! there; 

 In the silence rare, 

 My soul with sweet music is stirred. 



I love the hills, the heathery hills, 



Where the wild flowers sweetly blow, 

 And smile at the sun while their fragrance fills 

 The breath of the breezes low ; 

 O! there; O! there; 

 I banish life's care, 

 And happiness only I know. 



I love the hills! the sombre hills, 

 In silvery moonbeams drest, 

 Where the curlew calls in sorrowful trills, 

 From its lonely distant nest ; 

 O! there; O! there; 

 In the night-hushed air, 

 I speak with the Spirit of Rest. 



Wm. Allan. 



Heath 



How oft, though grass and moss are seen 

 Tanned bright for want of showers, 



Still keeps the ling its darksome green, 

 Thick set with little flowers. 



Moorland Blossoms. 



