My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart 's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer.

Affliction's sons are brothers in distress; A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!

Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride o' sunny noon; Not the little sporting fairy, All beneath the simmer moon; Not the poet, in the moment Fancy lightens in his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, That thy presence gi'es to me.

I want someone to laugh with me, someone to be grave with me, someone to please me and help my discrimination with his or her own remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire my acuteness and penetration.

But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, it's bloom is shed; Or, like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white, then melts forever.

Here's to us, who's like us Damn few, and they're all dead.

O, my luve is like a red, red rose.