Oh for the Scottish Winds (1899)
Oh for a breath of the moorlands,A whiff of the cailer air ;
For a smell of the flowering heather,
My very heart is sair. Oh for a whiff of the burnies
That wimple to the sea,
For a sight of the browning bracken
On the hillsides waring free. Oh, for the blue rocks cradled
In the arms o' mountain gray,
That smile as they shadow the drifting clouds,
A' the bonnie summer day, Oh for the tops of the mountains
White wi' eternal snaw,
For the mists that drift across the lift,
For the strong east winds that blaw. I am sick o' the blazing sunshine
That burns through the weary hours ;
The caged birds are mournful while they sing,
And I pine 'midst these foreign flowers. I would gie their puir southern glory
For a taste o' a guid saut wind,
Wi' a road o'er the Channel smooth before
And a track of foam behind. Auld Scotland may be rugged,
Her mountains stern and bare ;
But oh for a breath o' her moorlands,
A whiff o' her cailer air. Notes From the Queensland newspaper The Western Star 14 Jun 1899 p. 4.