Wide waving in the southland gale,
Which through the broomwood blossoms flew,
To fan her cheeks of rosy hue!
Whene’er it heaved her bosom’s screen,
What beauties in her form were seen!
And when her courser’s mane it swung,
A thousand silver bells were rung.
A sight so fair, on Scottish plain,
A Scot shall never see again!—Hogg.