SONGS OF THE HEATHER. 



The Hills of the Heather 



Give the swains of Italia 



'Mong myrtles to rove, 

 Give the proud, sullen Spaniard 



His bright orange grove; 

 Give gold-sanded streams 



To the sons of Chili, 

 But, oh ! give the hills of the heather to me. 



The hills where the hunter 



Oft soundeth his horn, 

 Where sweetest the skylark 



Awakens the morn; 

 The grey cliff, the blue lake, 



The stream's dashing glee, 

 Endear the red hills 



Of the heather to me. 



There Health, rosy virgin, 



Forever doth dwell ; 

 There Love fondly whispers 



To beauty his tale; 

 There Freedom's own darling! 



The Gael, lives free, 

 Then, oh! give the hills 



Of the heather to me. 



Evan M'Coll. 



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