My darling is the philabeg,
With scarlet hosen for the leg,
And the spotted curtal coat so trig,
And the head blue-bonneted.
The wimpled kilt be mine to wear,
Confusion take the breechen gear,
My limbs be fetterless and bare,
And not like Saxon donnot-led.[16]
Oh, well I love the eididh[17] free,
When it sends me bounding on the lea,
Or up the brae so merrily,
There's ne'er a darg that wonnet speed.
Give me the plaid, and on the hill
I 'll watch my turn, a se'ennight's spell,
And not a shiver from the chill
Shall pierce my trusty coverlet.
And for the tartan's lively flame,
In glen or clachan 'tis the same,
Alike it pleases lass and dame—
Unmatched its glories ever yet.
Be mine in Highland graith array'd,
With weapon trim the glens to tread,
And rise a stag of foremost head,
Then let him tent my culiver.
And when I marshal to the feast,
With deer-skin belt around my waist,
And in its fold a dirk embraced,
Then Roland match shall Oliver.