He aye may depend on Macdonald, Depend upon Donald Macdonald, If Bonapart land at Fort-William, An' sing him Lochaber no more!" Bullets an' stanes an' a'. We'll finish the Corsican callan, 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, 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, Sweeping through the broom so yellow. Oft on thee the silent wain Saw the Douglas' banners streaming Sought the shelter'd deer in vain ; Oft the snell and sleety showers 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, Meet thy titty yont the knowe: Into life wha first did drap me: 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. 66 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; Here daily I wander to sigh on the steep; Contending for life both with earth and with heaven. 66 'My country, they said-but they told me a lieHer vallies were barren, inclement her sky; Even now in the glens, 'mong her mountains so blue, The primrose and daisy are blooming in dew. How could she expel from those mountains of health The clans who maintain'd them in danger and death! Who ever were ready the broad-sword to draw In defence of her honour, her freedom, and law. "We stood by our Stuart, till one fatal blow |