Our bald-pow'd daddies here we've seen,
In younker revels fidgin' fain;
Our gray-hair'd grannies here hae been,
Like daffin hizzies, young again!
To mony a merrie auld Scot's strain
We've deftly danced the time awa':
We met in mirth—we part wi' pain,
Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
My nimble gray neighs at the yett,
My shouthers roun' the plaid I throw;
I've clapt the spur upon my buit,
The guid braid bonnet on my brow!
Then night is wearing late I trow—
My hame lies mony a mile awa';
The mair's my need to mount and go,
Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
THE GATHERING.[12]
Rise, rise! Lowland and Highlandman,
Bald sire to beardless son, each come and early;
Rise, rise! mainland and islandmen,
Belt on your broad claymores—fight for Prince Charlie;
Down from the mountain steep,
Up from the valley deep,
Out from the clachan, the bothie, and shieling,
Bugle and battle-drum
Bid chief and vassal come,
Bravely our bagpipes the pibroch is pealing.
Men of the mountains—descendants of heroes!
Heirs of the fame as the hills of your fathers;
Say, shall the Southern—the Sassenach fear us
When to the war-peal each plaided clan gathers?
Too long on the trophied walls
Of your ancestral halls,
Red rust hath blunted the armour of Albin;
Seize then, ye mountain Macs,
Buckler and battle-axe,
Lads of Lochaber, Braemar, and Breadalbin!
When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward?
When did the blue bonnet crest the disloyal?
Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart,
Follow your leader—the rightful—the royal!
Chief of Clanronald,
Donald Macdonald!
Lovat! Lochiel! with the Grant and the Gordon!
Rouse every kilted clan,
Rouse every loyal man,
Gun on the shoulder, and thigh the good sword on!
MARY.
Air—"The Dawtie."