0mm 



Ye hills where the clear winding streams o' the 



west 



Bin wimplin' awa' o'er the wild mountain's crest, 

 An' birdies nit lightly the green leaves amang, 

 Or warble wi' Armstrang a saul-thrilling sang ; 

 Though far frae the scenes that enrapture me 



still, 



And while fancy neglects na, her night ever will. 

 Oh ! the wild heaving Wannies, like robins 



lang syne, 

 Are blent in my bosom wi' bonny North Tyne. 



Untutor'd by art imperfections to hide, 

 There Nature exults in her grandeur and pride, 

 And flings her broad mantle o'er moorland and 

 lea ; 



Where lambkins are sporting sae blithesome 

 and free, 



Oh ! there let me ponder, and pensively stray 

 Through groves and green arbours the lang 



simmer day, 



And muse, while at eve on my couch I recline, 

 O'er the wild heaving Wannies and bonny 



North Tyne. 



