For oft thy voice would lead me back,
From life’s insipid daily track,
To wild romance and warfare rude,
That mingle in old Scotland’s mood,
For thou didst know and paint them well,
And wandering fancy warmed the spell.
My father, how the tear-drop swells
As o’er the past my vision dwells,
When I have stood beside thy chair
And smoothed and kissed thy silvery hair,