"An' sweetly wild were Allan's strains,
An' mony a jig an' reel he blew;
Wi' merry lilts he charm'd the swains,
Wi' barbed spear the otter slew.
'Nae mair he'll scan, wi' anxious eye,
The sandy shores of winding Reed;
Nae mair he'll tempt the finny fry,—
The king O' Tinklers, Allan's dead.
"Nae mair at Mell or Merry Night
The cheering bagpipes Wull shall blaw;