The Ingle Side.It’s rare to see the morning breeze,Like a bonfire frae the sea;It’s fair to see the burnie kiss,The lip o’ the flowery lea.An’ fine it is on green hillside,Where hums the busy bee;But rarer, fairer, finer far,Is the Ingle side for me.Glens may be gilt wi’ gowans fair,The birds may fill the tree;And haughs hae a’ the scented ware,That simmer growth can gie;But the canty hearth where cronies meet,An’ the darling o’ our e’e,That makes to us a warld complete—Oh! the Ingle side for me.
It’s rare to see the morning breeze,Like a bonfire frae the sea;It’s fair to see the burnie kiss,The lip o’ the flowery lea.An’ fine it is on green hillside,Where hums the busy bee;But rarer, fairer, finer far,Is the Ingle side for me.Glens may be gilt wi’ gowans fair,The birds may fill the tree;And haughs hae a’ the scented ware,That simmer growth can gie;But the canty hearth where cronies meet,An’ the darling o’ our e’e,That makes to us a warld complete—Oh! the Ingle side for me.
It’s rare to see the morning breeze,Like a bonfire frae the sea;It’s fair to see the burnie kiss,The lip o’ the flowery lea.An’ fine it is on green hillside,Where hums the busy bee;But rarer, fairer, finer far,Is the Ingle side for me.Glens may be gilt wi’ gowans fair,The birds may fill the tree;And haughs hae a’ the scented ware,That simmer growth can gie;But the canty hearth where cronies meet,An’ the darling o’ our e’e,That makes to us a warld complete—Oh! the Ingle side for me.
It’s rare to see the morning breeze,Like a bonfire frae the sea;It’s fair to see the burnie kiss,The lip o’ the flowery lea.An’ fine it is on green hillside,Where hums the busy bee;But rarer, fairer, finer far,Is the Ingle side for me.
It’s rare to see the morning breeze,
Like a bonfire frae the sea;
It’s fair to see the burnie kiss,
The lip o’ the flowery lea.
An’ fine it is on green hillside,
Where hums the busy bee;
But rarer, fairer, finer far,
Is the Ingle side for me.
Glens may be gilt wi’ gowans fair,The birds may fill the tree;And haughs hae a’ the scented ware,That simmer growth can gie;But the canty hearth where cronies meet,An’ the darling o’ our e’e,That makes to us a warld complete—Oh! the Ingle side for me.
Glens may be gilt wi’ gowans fair,
The birds may fill the tree;
And haughs hae a’ the scented ware,
That simmer growth can gie;
But the canty hearth where cronies meet,
An’ the darling o’ our e’e,
That makes to us a warld complete—
Oh! the Ingle side for me.