O the birds of bonnie Scotland,
I love them one and all—
The eagle soaring high in pride,
The wren so blithe and small.
I love the cushat in the wood,
The heron by the stream,
The lark that sings the stars asleep,
The merle that wakes their beam.

O the birds of dear old Scotland,
I love them every one—
The owl that leaves the tower by night,
The swallow in the sun.
I love the raven on the rock,
The sea-bird on the shore,
The merry chaffinch in the wood,
And the curlew on the moor.

O the birds of bonnie Scotland,
How lovely are they all!
The oozel by the forest spring
Or lonely waterfall!
The thrush that from the leafless bough
Delights the infant year,
The redbreast wailing sad and lone,
When leaves are falling sear.

O for the time when first I roamed
The woodland and the field,
A silent sharer in the joy
Each summer minstrel pealed.
Their nests I knew them every one—
In bank, or bush, or tree;
Familiar as a voice of home,
Their every tone of glee.

They tell of birds in other climes
In richest plumage gay,
With gorgeous tints that far outshine
An eastern king's array.
Strangers to song! more dear to me
The linnet, modest gray,
That pipes among the yellow broom
His wild, heart-witching lay.

More dear than all their shining hues,
The wells of glee that lie
In throstle's matchless mottled breast
Or merle's of ebon dye.
And though a lordling's wealth were mine,
In some far sunny spot,
My heart could never own a home
Where minstrel birds were not.

Sweet wilding birds of Scotland,
I loved ye when a boy,
And to my soul your names are linked
With dreams of vanished joy.
And I could wish, when death's cold hand
Has stilled this heart of mine,
That o'er my last low bed of earth
Might swell your notes divine.