THE BRAES OF AUCHINBLAE.
As clear is Luther's wave, I ween,
As gay the grove, the vale as green;
But, oh! the days that we have seen
Are fled, and fled for aye, Mary!
Oh! we have often fondly stray'd
In Fordoun's green embow'ring glade,
And mark'd the moonbeam as it play'd
On Luther's bonnie wave, Mary!
Since then, full many a year and day
With me have slowly pass'd away,
Far from the braes of Auchinblae,
And far from love and thee, Mary!
And we must part again, my dear,
It is not mine to linger here;
Yes, we must part—and, oh! I fear,
We meet not here again, Mary!
For on Culloden's bloody field,
Our hapless Prince's fate is seal'd—
Last night to me it was reveal'd
Sooth as the word of heaven, Mary!
And ere to-morrow's sun shall shine
Upon the heights of Galloquhine,
A thousand victims at the shrine
Of tyranny shall bleed, Mary!
Hark! hark! they come—the foemen come—
I go; but wheresoe'er I roam,
With thee my heart remains at home—
Adieu, adieu for aye, Mary!