While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on the river, Mac Gregor despite then shall flourish for ever! Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career, O'er the peak of Ben Lomond the galley shall steer, ["These verses are adapted to a very wild, yet lively gatheringtune, used by the Mac Gregors. The severe treatment of this clan, their outlawry, and the proscription of their very name, are alluded to in the ballad."-SCOTT.] THE HILLS O' GALLOWA.' THOMAS CUNNINGHAM. Born 1776-Died 1834. Amang the birks sae blythe and gay, The lammies loupit on the lawn; Wi' music wild the woodlands rang, It isna owsen, sheep, an' kye, The warld's drumlie gloom to cheer. Ye powers wha rowe this yirthen ba' And O! sae blythe thro' life I'll steer, Amang the hills o' Gallowa'. Whan gloamin' dauners up the hill, And our gudeman ca's hame the yowes, That owre the muir meandering rowes; And sing the streams, the straths, and howes, And when auld Scotland's heathy hills, Whare heather blooms and muircocks craw, O! dig my grave, and hide my banes Amang the hills o' Gallowa'. THE BRAES OF BALLAHUN. THOMAS CUNNINGHAM. Now smiling summer's balmy breeze O blissful days, for ever fled, Why starts the tear, why bursts the sigh, When hills and dales rebound with joy? The flowery glen and lilied lea In vain display their charms to me. I joyless roam the heathy waste, To soothe this sad, this troubled breast; Amang the braes of Ballahun. The virgin blush of lovely youth, [' Ballahun,' is a wild woody glen near Blackwood House on the river Nith.] FAREWELL TO BONNIE TEVIOTDALE. THOMAS PRINGLE. Our native land, our native vale, And Cheviot mountains blue! Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, Farewell, the blythesome broomy knowes, The mossy cave, and mouldering tower, That skirt our native dell; The martyr's grave, and lover's bower, We bid a sad farewell! Home of our love! our father's home We seek a wild and distant shore, Our native land, our native vale, Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale, And Scotland's mountains blue! THE BONNY LASS OF DELORAINE. JAMES HOGG. 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 inspir'd the simple strain, That lovely flower so sweet and young, The bonny lass of Deloraine. |