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Although the Irish Harp were won, And England's Roses all o’errun, 'Mong Scotia's glens, with sword and
gun, We'll form a bulwark round him!
THE BROOM SAE GREEN
Is my greatest favourite at present,-probably because the air is my own, as well as the verses ; for I find I have a par. ticular facility in approving of such things. It is beautifully set by Bishop, in Goulding and D'Almaine's Select Scottish Melodies.
LANG I sat by the broom sae green,
An' 0, my heart was eerie!
Your laddie will no come near ye!
Your laddie will no come near ye !
His leifu' sang the robin sung
On the bough that hung sae near me,
For O, the strain was dreary!
The robin's sang it coudnae be
laddie wad no come near me ?
The new-wean’d lamb on yonder lea
It bleats out through the braken, The herried bird upon the tree
Mourns o'er its nest forsaken ;If they are wae, how weel may I ? Nae grief like mine aneath the sky, The lad I lo'e he cares nae by
Though my fond heart is breaking !
FLORA MACDONALD'S FAREWELL
Was composed to an air handed me by the late lamented Niel Gow, junior. He said it was an ancient Skye air, but afterwards told me it was his own. When I first heard the song sung by Mr Morison, I never was so agreeably astonished, -I could hardly believe my senses that I had made so good a song without knowing it.
Far over yon hills of the heather sae green,
An' down by the correi that sings to the sea, The bonny young Flora sat sighing her lane,
The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her ee. She look'd at a boat wi’ the breezes that swung
Away on the wave, like a bird of the main, An'aye as it lessen'd, she sigh'd and she sung,
Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again ! Fareweel to my hero, the gallant an' young,
Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!
The moorcock that craws on the brows of Ben-Connal,
He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame;.
Unawed and unhunted, his eyry can claim ;
The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea, But, ah! there is one whose hard fate I deplore,
Nor house, ha', nor hame, in his country has heThe conflict is past, and our name is no more
There's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me!
The target is torn from the arm of the just,
The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave, The claymore for ever in darkness must rust,
But red is the sword of the stranger and slave; The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud,
Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue ! Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud
When tyranny revell’d in blood of the true ? Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good !
The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow!