Land o' the Early Morning Light.
By W.T.Lyall


Land o' the early morning sun,
Where the stag, the otter and wild cat run,
In sunshine bright, in rain or snow,
The same perfection as centuries ago.


Land of the fairies and strange tranquil,
Where once the Redcoats plundered and killed,
Mist ghosts that come to haunt the glen,
Cast weary shadows on the But an' Ben.


White maned breakers on a lonely shore,
Caress the sands since the days o' yore,
Gigantic mountains high and proud,
Heads softly pillowed in snow-white cloud.


Tumbling falls o'er hills cascades,
The myrtle scented moor when the rainbow fades,
Fast flowing rivers in spate pass by,
Lochs as deep as the mountain's high.


The quiet demure of this mystic place,
As yet unscarred by the human race,
Where the stars seem shy on a midsummer's night,
In the land o' the early morning light.