That the birk or the willow fringes,
Whose peace the wild wind canna break,
Or but its beauty changes.
An’ she is aye my bonny, bonny rose,
She’s the bonny young Rose-a-Lyndsaye;
An’ ae blink of hor e’e wad be dearer to me
Than the wale o’ the lands o’ Lyndsaye.”
The voices rang clear a moment, and then were lost, and heard anew, without seeming cause for the break. Then came a fresh snatch of song:
“Come o’er the stream, Charlie,
Braw Charlie, brave Charlie;