The Western Isles are bonnie,
And their mountains tower so grand
Above the trailing cloud and mist
That sweep o'er sea and land;
But my weary heart is sighing,
And my laggard footsteps tend
To the dear scenes of my boyhood,
Kintyre's sweet gem - Southend.
There are those who sing the praises
Of the charming Sound of Sleat,
The skirl of Rory's piping,
And the tread of Angus' feet;
But I'll give them all the go-by,
And my warmest love I'll send
To the land of Colum-Cille,
And the kind folk in Southend.
O! The glory of the mornings
When the sun bathes hill and lea,
And guardian of this treasure
Stands grim Dunavertee;
The land of Cowal may be fair
And thousands thither tend,
But my seeking heart is yearning
For the peace of dear Southend.
Bright purple paints its hillsides,
And rich yellow decks its plain,
And Sabbath quiet can here be found
To soothe the weary brain;
Of the bustle of the city
I can gladly spare and lend
For a romp among the heather,
And a month in sweet Southend.
O! The joy of summer mornings
When we drive off from the tee,
And our balls fly up and onwards
In thy line, Dunavertee;
And on the "Mount of Zion"
We watch the "Hazel" send
Its waves to sing an oran
On thy glistening sands, Southend.
And dim across the waters
We see green Erin's shore,
And the frowning cliffs of Sanda
Tell of days of yore
When the Vikings sought its shelter
And MacDonald and his men
Gave the land a thrilling story,
To the glory of Southend.
Now laggard are my footsteps,
And joyless is my heart,
For soon Ceann-tir, the fairest,
And its exiled sons must part;
But in Glasgow's bustling city,
And beside the winter fire,
I'll dream of bliss and sunshine
As I found them in Kintyre.