Her sweetest harp now hangs unstrung,
Since Wilson’s ta’en awa’.
He sang o’ a’ her warlike deeds,
An’ sons that gallant were—
Her hoary towers, an’ snaw-clad hills,
An’ maidens sweet and fair.
His was a harp o’ thrillin’ sound,
Could pleasure aye impart;
Its melody o’ bygane days
Gaed hame to ilka heart.