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Sung by Andy Stewart

There's meadows in Lanark an mountains in Skye.
An pastures in Hielands an Lowlands forbye:
But there's nae greater luck thit the hert could desire
Than to herd the fine cattle in Bonnie Strathyre.
O, it's up in the morn an awa tae the hill,
Whan the lang summer days are sae warm an sae still
Till the peak o' Ben Voirlich is girdled wi fire,
An the evenin fa's gently on bonnie Strathyre.

Then there's mirth in the sheiling an love in my breast,
When the sun is gane doun an the kye are at rest:
For there's mony a prince wud be prood tae aspire
Tae ma winsome wee Maggie, the pride o Strathyre.
Her lips are like rowans in ripe summer seen.
An mild as the starlight the glint o' her e'en:
Faur sweeter her breath than the scent o' the briar,
An her voice is sweet music in bonnie Strathyre.

Then said Flora by Colin, an Maggie by me,
An we'll dance tae the pipes swellin loudly an free,
Till the moon in the heavens climbing higher an higher
Bids us sleep on fresh bracken in bonnie Strathyre.
Though some o' the touns o' the Lawlands seek fame
Ay an some will gang sodgerin faur fae thur hame;
I'll aye herd my cattle, an bigg my ain byre.
An loo ma ain Maggie in bonnie Strathyre.

An Loo Ma Ain Maggie In Bonnie Strathyre !