The Heather on the Hill

The mist of May is in the gloaming,

and all the clouds are holding still

So take my hand and let's go roaming through the heather on the hill.

The morning dew is blinking yonder,

there's lazy music in the rill,

And all I want to do is wander through the heather on the hill.

There may be other days as rich and rare,

There may be other springs as full and fare,

But they won't be the same, they'll come and go

For this I know;

That when the mist is in gloaming

And all the clouds are holding still,

If you're not there I won't go roaming through the heather on the hill,

The heather on the hill.