Imágenes de página
PDF
ePub

But since the proud Consul's grown vanity,

We'll meet him by land or by sea.
Wherever a clan is disloyal,

Wherever our king has a foe,
He'll quickly see Donald Macdonald
Wi' his Highlanders all in a row.

Guns an pistols an' a',
Pistols an' guns an'a';
He'll quickly see Donald Macdonald

Wi' guns an' pistols an' a'.
What though we befriendit young Charlie !

To tell it I dinna think shame; Poor lad! he came to us but barely,

An' reckon'd our mountain his hame : 'Tis true that our reason forbade us,

But tenderness carried the day ;
Had Geordie come friendless amang us,
Wi' him we had a' gane away.

Sword an' buckler an' a',
Buckler an' sword an' a':
For George we'll encounter the devil
Wi' sword an' buckler an' a'.

An' 0 I would eagerly press him

The keys o' the East to retain ; For should he gie up the possession.

We'll soon hae to force them again : Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour,

Though it war my finishin' blow,

He aye may depend on Macdonald,
Wi's Highlandmen all in a row.

Knees an' elbows an'a',
Elbows an' knees an' a'
Depend upon Donald Macdonald,
His knees an' elbows an' a'.

If Bonapart land at Fort-William,

Auld Europe nae longer shall grane : I laugh, when I think how we'll gall him

Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an' wi' stane ; Wi' rocks o' the Nevis an' Gairy

We'll rattle him aft frae the shore;
Or lull him asleep in a cairney,
An' sing him “ Lochaber no more!"

Stanes an' bullets an'a';
Bullets an' stanes an' a'.
We'll finish the Corsican callan,

Wi' stanes an' wi' bullets an' a'.
The Gordon is gude in a hurry,

An' Campbell is steel to the bane; An' Grant, an' Mackenzie, an' Murray,

An' Cameron will hurkle to nane; The Stuart is sturdy an' wannle,

An' sae is Macleod an' Mackay ;
An' I their gudebrither Macdonald,
Sal never be last i’ the fray,

Brogs an' brochen an'a',
Brochen an' brogs an'a',

An' up wi' the bonny blue bonnet,
The kilt an' the feather an'a',

BY A BUSH.

Tune-Maid that tends the Goats.

By a bush on yonder brae,

Where the airy Benger rises, Sandy tun’d his artless lay; Thus he sung the lee-lang day :Thou shalt ever be my theme,

Yarrow, winding down the hollow,
With thy bonny sister stream
Sweeping through the broom so yellow.

On these banks thy waters lave,
Oft the warrior found a grave.

Oft on thee the silent wain

Saw the Douglas' banners streaming
Oft on thee the hunter train
Sought the shelter'd deer in vain ;
Oft, in thy green dells and bowers,

Swains have seen the fairies riding:
Oft the snell and sleety showers
Found in thee the warrior hiding.

Many a wild and bloody scene
On thy bonny banks have been.

Now, the days of discord gane,

Henry's kindness keeps us cheery ; While his heart shall warm remain, Dule will beg a hauld in vain. Bloodless now, in many hues

Flow'rets bloom, our hills adorning, There my Jenny milks her ewes, Fresh an'.ruddy as the morning :

Mary Scot could could ne'er outvie
Jenny's hue an' glancing eye.

Wind, my Yarrow, down the howe,

Forming bows o' dazzling silver ;
Meet thy titty yont the knowe:
Wi' my love l'll join like you.
Flow, my Etrick, it was thee

Into life wha first did drap me:
Thee I've sung, an' when I dee
Thou wilt lend a sod to hap me.

Passing swains shall say, and weep,
Here our Shepherd lies asleep.

17

THE EMIGRANT.

AIR-Lochaber no more,

May morning had shed her red streamers on high,
O’er Canada, frowning all pale on the sky;
Still dazzling and white was the robe that she wore,
Except where the mountain-wave dash'd on the

shore. Far heav'd the young sun, like a lamp, on the wave And loud scream'd the gull o'er his foam-beaten

cave, When an old lyart swain on a headland stood high, With the staff in his hand, and the tear in his eye. His old tartan plaid, and his bonnet so blue, Declar'd from what country his lineage he drew; His visage so wan, and his accents so low, Announc'd the companion of sorrow and woe. 'Ah, welcome, thou sun, to thy canopy grand, And to me! for thou com’st from my dear native

land! Again dost thou leave that sweet isle of the sea, To beam on these winter-bound vallies and me!

“How sweet in my own native valley to roam! Each face was a friend's, and each house was a

home, To drag our live thousands from river or bay ; Or chase the dun dear o'er the mountains so gray.

« AnteriorContinuar »