Nay, touch it not; 'tis the cloudberry bloom
My friend, you and I have found,
On this far height, 'mid the soft June winds,
Pale-white on the mossy ground.
Ah! rarely 'tis seen by the eye of man;
By us let it not be soiled;
The sprites linger long on the mists of the morn
To watch it ope on the wild.
Up the hill we have climbed by dyke and burn,
The heather was breaking in green,
The blaeherry flower was red on the brae —
Now we kneel to the Mountain Queen!
High 'neath the clouds thou bloomest alone.
Last flower of the moorland free —
Thy homage the circling peewit's cry,
And the hum of the mountain bee.
No blacker waste hath the heights than thine,
White star of the mossy lea!
Face turned to the dews and the light of morn,
Thou winnest thy purity!
Bloom fairer than thee I ne'er have seen
In dale or on hill I've climbed,
And ne'er have I known a darker birth
By the power of heaven sublimed!