Scottish True, My Bonnie Lassie

Scottish True, My Bonnie Lassie

There are hills beyond the hills we call home,
And people other than people we call friends.
When they meet in the right setting it mends,
As only a village may, bringing family into its own.
The hills of home are gathering in all who roam.
For us the Highlands call out, the bag piper blends
His shrill and base echoing what would be of men's 
Voices. "Old Lang Syne" sung in groups, never alone.

Athletic, blond, first born lassie, in slippers dancing
All the day, she knows how to dance in every way :
The Highland Fling, The Sword Dance, Scottish true,
She twirls, whirls, lightly stepping almost prancing
In yon misty hills of heather where stag deer play.
Music, images, hills, pipers, stage fade out of view.

Ronald C. Downie
Petrarchan sonnet