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Ye lovely maids, pitch high your notes
As virgin voice can sound them, Sing of your brave, your noble Scots,
For glory blazes round them.
Lamented be the others,
Strike all the glen with wonder ;
Till music speaks in thunder.
What storm can rend your mountain-rock,
What wave your headlands shiver ? Long have they stood the tempest's shock,
Thou know'st they will for ever. Sooner your eye those cliffs shall view
Split by the wind and weather, Than foeman's eye the bonnet blue
Behind the nodding feather.
O raise the pibroch, Donald Bane!
Our caps to the sky we'll send them. Scotland, thy honours who can stain,
Thy laurels who dare rend them !
Was written on leaving one of the loveliest scenes in Athol, if not in the world, and one of the sweetest maidens ; therefore the song is truly no fiction. It was so true, that a beloved female friend of mine could never endure to hear it sung. It was never published, that I remember of. It is to the air of “The Maid of Isla.”
WEAR away, ye hues of spring,
That leads me back to Highland Tay.
That lies aneath yon birken shaw.
Aye we sat, and aye we sigh’d,
For there was ane my arm within ; Aye the restless stream we eyed,
And heard its soft and soothing din. The sun had sought Glen-Lyon’s glade,
Forth peer'd the e'ening's modest gem, An' every little cloud that stray'd,
Look'd gaudy in its gouden hem.
The playful breeze across the plain
Brought far the woodlark's wooer tale, An' play'd along the mellow grain
In mimic waves adown the dale. I saw the drops of dew so clear
Upon the green leaf trembling lie, But sweeter far the crystal tear
That trembled in a lovely eye.
When lovers meet, 'tis to the mind
The spring-flush o' the blooming year ; But their parting leaves behind
Something to memory ever dear!