At buchts in the mornin', nae blythe lads are scor nin', Lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighin' and sabbin', In har'st at the shearin', nae youths now are jeerin', At e'en, in the gloamin', nae swankies are roamin' 'Bout stacks, 'mang the lassies at bogle to play; But each ane sits dreary, lamentin' her dearie,— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! The English for ance by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land now lie cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae mair liltin' at our ewe-milkin', Jean Elliott. CXXX THE HIGHLAND LADDIE O WHERE, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone? O where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone? He's gone with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done, And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home. O where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay? O where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay? He dwelt beneath the holly trees, beside the rapid Spey, And many a blessing follow'd him, the day he went away. O what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear? O what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear? A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war, And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star. Suppose, ah suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound? The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly, The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye. But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds, But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds, His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, While wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name resounds. Anne Macivar Grant. CXXXI MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe— My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go! Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth! Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, CXXXII BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed Or to victorie! Now's the day, and now's the hour: See approach proud Edward's power— Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha for Scotland's King and Law By Oppression's woes and pains, Lay the proud usurpers low! Liberty's in every blow! Let us do, or die! Robert Burns. CXXXIII THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat? O let us not, like snarling tykes, For never but by British hands The kettle o' the Kirk and State, Our fathers' blude the kettle bought, The wretch that wad a tyrant own, And the wretch, his true-sworn brother, But while we sing 'God Save the King,' Robert Burns. CXXXIV THEIR GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay, sunny vallies, What are they?-the haunt of the tyrant and slave! The slave's spicy forests and gold-bubbling fountains Robert Burns. |