Awaken on all my dear moorlands the wind in its glory and pride!
O call me from highlands
To walk by the hillriver's side!

It is swelled with the first snowy weather
The rocks are icy and hoar
And darker waves around the long heather
And the fernleaves are sunny no more.

There are no yellow stars on the mountain,
The bluebells have all died away
From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain,
From the side of the wint'ry brae

But lovelier than cornfields all waving
In emerald and scarlet and gold
Are the slopes where the northwind is raving
And the glens where I wandered of old.

For the moors,
For the moors, where the short grass like velvet beneath us should lie!

For the moors,
For the moors, where each high pass rose sunny against the clear sky!

For the moors, where the linnet was trilling its song on the old granite stone;
For the moors, where the lark, the wild skylark was filling every breast with delight

What language can utter the feeling
That rose when in exile afar,
On the brow of a lonely hill kneeling
I saw the brown heath growing there.