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Was written to the popular air of “ The Blue Bells of Scotland,” at the request of a most beautiful young lady, who sung it particularly well. But several years afterwards I heard her still singing the old ridiculous words, which really, like the song of the whilly-whawp, “ is ane shame till heirre.” I never thought her so bonny afterwards ; but neither she was.

What are the flowers of Scotland,

All others that excel ?

The lovely flowers of Scotland,

All others that excel !
The thistle's purple bonnet,

And bonny heather bell,
O they're the flowers of Scotland

All others that excel !

Though England eyes her roses,

With pride she'll ne'er forego,
The rose has oft been trodden

By foot of haughty foe;

But the thistle in her bonnet blue,

Still nods outow'r the fell, And dares the proudest foeman

To tread the heather bell.

For the wee bit leaf o' Ireland,

Alack and well-a-day!
For ilka hand is free to pu'

An' steal the gem away :
But the thistle in her bonnet blue

Still bobs aboon them a';
At her the bravest darena blink,

Or gie his mou a thraw.

Up wi' the flowers o' Scotland,

The emblems o' the free, Their guardians for a thousand years,

Their guardians still we'll be.
A foe had better brave the deil

Within his reeky cell,
Than our thistle's purple bonnet,

Or bonny heather bell.


Was written on one of the flowers of the Forest nearly thirty years ago. There were two very lovely sisters of the family, and I never said to any one which was meant, hoping that each would take the compliment to herself in good part. But now, when both of them have children ready either to make songs, or have songs made of them, I must confess it was Elizabeth-Mrs W. B. Shaw.-It has never been set to music.

Still must my pipe lie idle by,

And worldly cares my mind annoy ?
Again its softest notes I'll try,

So dear a theme can never cloy.
Last time my mountain harp I strung,

'Twas she inspired the simple strain,
That lovely flower so sweet and young,

The bonny lass of Deloraine.


How blest the breeze's balmy sighs

Around her ruddy lips that blow,
The flower that in her bosom dies,

that bends beneath her toe! Her cheek's endued with powers at will

The rose's richest shade to drain, Her eyes what soft enchantments fill,

The bonny lass of Deloraine.

Let Athole boast her birchen bowers,

And Windermere her woodlands green, And Lomond of her lofty shores,

Wild Ettrick boasts a blither scene; For there the evening twilight swells

With many a wild and melting strain, And there the pride of beauty dwells,

The bonny lass of Deloraine.

May health still cheer her beauteous face,

And round her brows may honour twine, And Heaven preserve that bosom’s peace,

Where meekness, love, and duty join.



But all her joys shall cheer my heart,

And all her griefs shall give me pain, For never from my soul shall part

The bonny lass of Deloraine.

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