O' ER Morven's peaks bright glowed the golden west,
And I sat down upon a heath-clad hill
To list the brook sing its sweet psalm of rest,
As on it rippled past the silent mill.
So full of glory was the gorgeous scene,
Where seemed the beauties of all lands combined,
The gay heath 'mong a thousand shades of green,
The ivy around tree and rock entwined.

The music of the bee, the bird, the brook,
The mirrored sea, where mountains gazed with pride,
The hoary crag, the flower-bedappled nook,
The stately trees thro' which the zephyrs sighed.
The crystal fountains and the fragrant air,
So cool and pure, and as the sun went down,
The lingering glory crowning every where
The lovely braes beyond sweet Oban town.

The brook was hymning to the old grey mill,
As on it rippled to the silvery sea,
And I beheld another on the hill
Who seemed to listen to its minstrelsy.
Strangely in keeping with the scene sublime,
His flowing locks bathed in the mellow light
Like some grand chieftain of the olden time
Taking his rest from weary chase or fight.

Friend of our mountain land, our tongue, our race,
The sunbeams haloing thine hoary head
Are not the noblest crown that doth thee grace,
Learning and virtue round thee virtue shed.
When musing in those bowers at morn or eve,
Tho' fancy with her beauteous wings a-fold
No longer youth's own fairy visions weave,
Be thine, O Blackie, countless thoughts of gold.

From the rich chalice of the ancient sage,
Get precious draughts for the aspiring youth,
Unseal the beauties of the classic page,
To fire his soul with nobleness and truth.
Then bright young reapers to the harvest come,
Led by thine eye will bind their golden sheaves,
And when they sing their joyous harvest home,
They'll bless the hand that gave their laurel leaves.