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I saw my Jamie s wraith, for I cou'd na think it he,
A HIGHLAND LAD.
DRAW THE SWORD, SCOTLAND. Draw the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland!
Over mountain and moor hath passed the war-sign: The pibroch is pealing, pealing, pealing,
Who heeds not the summons is nae son o' thine. "
The clans they are gath'ring, gath’ring, gath'ring,
The clans they are gath'ring by loch and by lea; The banners they are flying, flying, Aying,
The banners they are flying that lead to victory. Draw the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland!
Charge as ye've charged in the days o' lang syne; Sound to the onset, the onset, the onset,
He who but falters is nae son o' thine.
Sheathe the sword, Scotland, for dimmed is its shine; The foemen are fleeing, fleeing, fleeing,
And wha ken nae mercy is nae son o' thine!
The struggle is over!-the victory won!
And glory for all who their duty have done!
With thy loved thistle new laurels entwine; Time shall ne'er part them, part them, part them,
But hand down the garland to each son o' thine,
GOOD NIGHT, AN’ JOY BE WI' YOU A'. Good night, and joy be wi' you a';
Your harmless mirth has cheer'd my heart;
In sorrow may ye never part!
The mountain fires now blaze in vain:
And in your deeds l'il live again! When on your muir our gallant clan
Frae boasting foes their banners tore,
Or fiercer wav'd the red claymore?
When through the glen the wand'rer came,
I gave him of our lordly fare,
I gave him here a welcome hame.
Be cantie, but be good and leal;
Anither's ay hae heart to feel.
I'll see you triumph ere I fa';
Good night, and joy be wi’ye a'.
I GAED A WAEFU' GATE YESTREEN,
I GAED a waefu’ gate yestreen,
A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue;
Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.
Her lips like roses wat wi' dew,
It was her een sae bonnie blue.
She charmed my soul, I wistna how;
Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue.
She'll aiblins listen to my vow;
To her twa een sae bonnie blue.
- LOCH-NA-GARR. Away ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,
In you let the minions of luxury rove;
Restore me the rock where the snow flake reposes,
For still they are sacred to freedom and love. Yet, Caledonia, dear are thy mountains,
Round their white summits tho' elements war, Tho' cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing foun
tains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-garr. Ah! there my young footings in infancy wander'd;
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder’d,
As daily I stray'd through the pine-cover'd glade. I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star, For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story .
Disclos'd by the natives of dark Loch-na-garr. Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale? Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland dale. Round Loch-na-garr, whilst the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car:
They dwell 'mid the tempests of dark Loch-na-garr. Ill-starr'd, though brave, did vision foreboding,
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause? Ah! where you designed to die at Culloden,
Victory crown'd not your fall with applause Still were you happy in death's early slumber.
You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar, The pibroch resounds to the piper's bold number,
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch-na-garr. Years have rolld on, Loch-na-garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse ere I tread you again, Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you;
Yet still you are dearer than Albion's plain.
England, thy beauties are tame and domestic,
To one who has roam'd on the mountains afar, O, for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch-na-gart.
Where eagles big aboon the Dee,
Brought joy to every body's ee;
Her thoughts on Sandie far at sea;
Sweet Mary, weep nae mair for me!"
To see from whence the voice might be,
Pale, bending on her hallow ee!
I'm in death's thraws below the sea;
Sae, Mary, weep nae mair for me!
But soon it waked and raised the main,
Who strave wi' him but strave in vain!
Tho'laith I was to gang but thee:
Sae, Mary, weep nae mair for me!
Which thou hast faulded down for me;
I'll meet wi' thee in heaven hie.'