By Grampia's towering mountain high,
Whose rocky summits skirt the sky,
Wild rolls the queen of Scotia's floods,
Adorned by Athole's ancient woods:
Along their winding walks in spring,
How sweet to hear the wild-birds sing;
At peep of dawn, how sweet to stray
A down the bonnie banks of Tay!

Here summer's sun, with golden gleams,
Gilds mountain tops, the woods, the streams;
Before his early, piercing ray,
The wreaths of white mist wheel away,
Revealing all the lovely scene;-
The woods, thick cloth'd in foliage green,
High waving o'er the wild rocks grey
Upon the bonnie banks of Tay!

Enchanting scenes! How oft in view
To fancy's eye, fresh, blooming, new;-
The flowing river, mountains, strath-
The winding of each woodland path;
And dearer still,-fond friendship's ties,
And true love's flame that never dies;
All these were mine;-now far away
I mourn the bonnie banks of Tay!


Robert Carmichael